•& 

<&  x 


€ 

i 


\  %  r^ 

3 

i  -^  v.  -      ~.-~ 


.- 


LIBRARY 

JNIVERS1TY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


1 


Alphonse   Daudet. 


ALPHONSE    DAUDET 


TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 


Ellustrations 


1  In  France  every  one  is  somewhat  Tarasconian  " 


REVISED    TRANSLATION 


NEW  YORK:  46  EAST  MTH  STREET 

THOMAS    Y.    CROWELL    &    CO. 

BOSTON  :   100  PURCHASE  STREET 


COPYRIGHT, 

1895, 
BY  T.  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO. 


JOHN  WILSON  &  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U  S.  A. 


SFo  mg  JFrtcnB, 
GONZAGUE     PRIVAT 


Contents 


FIRST   EPISODE 
IN     TARASCON 

Page 
I.     The  Baobab  Garden 3 

II.     A  general  survey  of  the  good  town  of  Tarascon;  the     • 
cap-hunters 9 

III.  Nan  J  nan!  nan!  —  Continuation  of  the  general  survey 

of  the  good  town  of  Tarascon 17 

IV.  "They!" ! 23 

V.     How  Tartarin  went  round  to  his  club 29 

VI.     The  two  Tartarins 37 


viii  CONTENTS 

Page 

VII.  The  Europeans  at  Shanghai  —  High  Commerce  — 

The  Tartars — Can  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  be  an 
impostor  ?  —  The  mirage      .......     43 

VIII.  Mitaine's    Menagerie  —  A   lion   from   the   Atlas  at 

Tarascon  —  A    solemn    and    awe-inspiring    con- 
frontation    49 

IX.    Singular  effects  of  mirage 157 

X.     Before  the  start 63 

XI.     "  Use  swords,  gentlemen,  swords,  not  pins  ! "   .     .     .  69 

XII.    What  was  said  in  the  little  Baobab  Villa    ....  75 

XIII.  The  departure Si 

XIV.  The  Port  of  Marseilles  —  "  All  aboard,  all  aboard  ! "  89 


CONTENTS  IX 


SECOND  EPISODE 
AMONG    THE    TEURS 

Page 
I.     The  passage  —  The  five  positions  of  the  Chechia  — 

The  third  evening  out  —  Mercy  on  us !  ....  97 

II.     "  To  arms !  to  arms  !" 103 

III.  Invocation  to  Cervantes  —  The  disembarkation  — 
Where  are  the  Teurs?  —  Not  a  Teur  —  Disen- 
chantment    109 

IV.     The  first  lying  in  wait 115 

V.     Bang,  bang! 121 

VI.     Arrival  of  the  female—  A  terrible  combat — "Le 

Rendez-vous  des  Lapins  " 127 

VII.     History  of  an  omnibus,  a  Moorish  beauty,  and  a 

wreath  of  jasmine  flowers 133 

VIII.     Lions  of  the  Atlas,  sleep ! 139 

IX.     Prince  Gregory  of  Montenegro 145 

X.    "  Tell  me  your  father's  name,  and  I  will  tell  you  the 

name  of  this  flower  " 133 

XI.     Sidi  Tart'ri  Ren  Tart'ri 161 

XII.     The  latest  news  from  Tarascon 169 


THIRD   EPISODE 
AMONG   THE    LIONS 


I.     Exiled  stage-coaches 

II.  In  which  a  little  man  is  seen  to  pass 

III.  A  monastery  of  lions 

IV.  The  caravan  on  the  march      .     .     . 
V.  The  night-watch  in  Oleander  Grove 

VI.     At  last! 

VII.  Catastrophes  upon  catastrophes  .     . 

VIII.     Tarascon  !  Tarascon  ! 


Page 

i/7 
185 

'93 

201 
209 
2I9 

227 
235 


FIRST    EPISODE. 


IN     TARASCON. 


CHAPTER  I 
The  Baobab  Garden. 


The  Baobab  Garden. 

MY  first  visit  to  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  has  remained 
a  never-to-be-forgotten  date  in  my  life;  it  was  ten  or 
a  dozen  years  ago,  but  I  remember  it  better  than 
yesterday. 

The  intrepid  Tartarin  lived  at  that  time  on  the 
Avignon  road,  in  the  third  house  on  the  left  as  the 
town  begins.  A  pretty  little  villa  in  the  local  style, 
with  a  garden  in  front,  a  balcony  behind,  very  white 
walls,  green  Venetian  blinds,  and  about  the  door- 
steps a  brood  of  little  Savoyard  urchins  playing  hop- 
scotch, or  dozing  in  the  broad  sunshine  with  their 
heads  pillowed  on  their  blacking-boxes. 

Outwardly  the  dwelling  had  no  remarkable 
features. 

You  would  never  have  believed  it  to  be  the  abode 
of  a  hero.  But  when  you  stepped  inside,  coquin  de 
sort!  . 


4  TARTARIN  OF  TAR  AS  CON 

The  whole  building  from  cellar  to  garret,  even  the 
garden,  had  an  heroic  aspect. 

Oh  that  garden  of  Tartarin's !  there  was  not  an- 
other like  it  in  Europe !  Not  a  native  tree  was 
there,  —  not  one  flower  of  France ;  nothing  but 
exotic  plants,  gum-trees,  calabash -trees,  cotton- 
woods,  cocoanut-trees,  mangoes,  bananas,  palms,  a 


baobab,  nopals,  cacti,  Barbary 

figs,  — till  you  would  think  yourself  in  the  very  midst 
of  Central  Africa,  ten  thousand  leagues  away. 
None  of  these,  of  course,  was  full  grown ;  thus  the 
cocoanut-trees  were  scarcely  bigger  than  beets,  and 
the  baobab  (arbos  gtgantea,  —  "giant  tree")  was 
easily  held  by  a  mignonette-pot ;  but,  all  the  same,  it 
was  rather  fine  for  Tarascon,  and  the  townsfolk  who 
were  admitted  on  Sundays  to  the  honor  of  con- 
templating Tartarin's  baobab,  went  home  full  of 
admiration. 


TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 


5 


Imagine  what  emotion  I  must  have  felt  on  the  day 
when  I  passed  through  this  marvellous  garden  !  .  .  . 
Even  that  was  capped  when  I  was  ushered  into  the 
hero's  sanctum. 

This  sanctum,  one  of  the  curiosities  of  the  town, 
was  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  its  glass  door  opening 
directly  out  on  the  baobab. 

Picture  a  large  apartment  adorned  from  top  to 
bottom  with  guns  and  sabres :  all  the  weapons  of 
all  the  countries  in  the  world,  —  carbines,  rifles, 
blunderbusses,  Corsican  knives,  Catalan  knives, 
revolver  knives,  dagger  knives,  Malay  kreeses,  Carib 
arrows,  flint  arrows,  knuckle-dusters,  tomahawks, 
Hottentot  clubs,  Mexican  lassoes,  and  what  not ! 

A  fierce  sunlight  fell  from  above,  making  the 
steel  of  the  blades  and  the  butt  ends  of  the  firearms 
gleam  as  if  to  give  you  all  the  more  goose-flesh.  .  .  . 

Still,  the  fine  appearance  of  order  and  tidiness 
reigning  over  all  this  yataghanry  was  somewhat  re- 
assuring. Everything  was  in  place,  brushed,  dusted, 
labelled,  as  though  it  were  an  apothecary  shop;  at 
intervals  an  obliging  little  card  reading,  — 

Poisoned  Arrows  I     Do  not  touch  ! 
Or, 

Loaded!     Take  care ! 

Had  it  not  been  for  these  cautions,  I  should  never 
have  dared  to  enter. 

In  the  middle  of  the  room  stood  a  round  table;  on 
the  table  a  flagon  of  rum,  a  Turkish  tobacco-pouch, 
"  Captain  Cook's  Voyages,"  the  tales  of  Cooper  and 


6  TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON 

Gustave  Aimard,  stories  of  bear-hunting,  hawking, 
elephant-hunting,  and  so  on. 

Lastly,  beside  the  table  sat  a  man  of  between 
forty  and  forty-five,  short,  stout,  thick-set,  ruddy,  with 
blazing  eyes  and  a  vigorous  stubbly  beard  ;  he  wore 
flannel  tights,  and  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves ;  he  held 
a  book  in  one  hand,  and  in  the  other  brandished  an 
enormous  pipe  with  an  iron  bowl-cap,  and  while 
reading  some  terrific  adventure  of  scalp-hunters,  he 
pouted  out  his  lower  lip,  making  a  frightful  face, 
which  gave  the  little  Tarascon  gentleman's  honest 
phiz  the  same  impression  of  kindly  ferocity  which 
abounded  throughout  the  house. 

This  man  was  Tartarin  himself,  —  Tartarin  of 
Tarascon,  the  intrepid,  the  great,  incomparable  Tar- 
tarin of  Tarascon. 


CHAPTER  IJ 


A  general  survey  of  the  good  town  of  Tar 
ascon;  the  cap-hunters. 


II 


A  general  survey  of  the  good  town  of  Tarascon  j 
the  cap-hunters. 

AT  the  time  of  which  I  am  telling  you,  Tartarin 
of  Tarascon  had  not  yet  become  the  present-day 
Tartarin,  the  great  Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  so  popular 
in  the  whole  South  of  France.  Yet  —  even  then  — 
he  was  already  King  of  Tarascon  ! 

Let  us  show  whence  arose  his  sovereignty. 

In  the  first  place  you  must  know  that  everybody 
in  that  region,  from  the  greatest  to  the  least,  is  a 
huntsman.  Hunting  is  the  local  craze,  and  it  has 
been  so  ever  since  the  mythological  times  when  the 
Tarasque  flourished  in  the  town  marshes,  and  when 
the  Tarasconians  of  that  day  organized  shooting- 
parties  against  him.  That 's  a  long  time,  as  you  see. 

Q 


10  TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON 

So,  every  Sunday  morning,  Tarascon  /files  to 
arms  and  rushes  out  of  its  walls,  with  game-bag  on 
back,  with  fowling-piece  on  shoulder,  together  with 
a  tremor  of  hounds,  of  ferrets,  of  bugles,  and  of 
hunting-horns.  It's  splendid  to  see!  .  .  .  Unfortu- 
nately, game  is  lacking,  absolutely  lacking. 

Stupid  as  animals  are,  you  can  realize  that  at 
length  they  learnt  to  feel  distrust. 

For  five  leagues  around  about  Tarascon,  the 
burrows  are  empty,  the  nesting-places  abandoned. 
Not  a  blackbird,  not  a  quail,  not  one  little  leveret, 
not  the  tiniest  snipe. 

Yet  mightily  tempting  are  these  pretty  Tarascon 
hillocks,  all  sweet  smelling  of  myrtle,  lavender,  and 
rosemary  ;  and  the  fine  muscatel  grapes  plumped  out 
with  sweetness,  as  they  spread  along  the  banks  of 
the  Rhone,  are  deucedly  appetizing  too.  .  .  .  Yes, 
but  Tarascon  lies  behind  all  this,  and  Tarascon  has 
a  very  bad  reputation  in  the  little  world  of  fur  and 
feather.  The  very  birds  of  passage  have  marked  it 
on  their  guide-books  with  a  big  cross  ;  and  when  the 
wild  ducks,  coming  down  towards  the  Camargue  in 
long  triangles,  spy  the  town  steeples  from  afar,  the 
leader  begins  to  squawk  out  loudly, — 

"  There  's  Tarascon  !  there  's  Tarascon ! " 

And  the  whole  flock  takes  a  swerve. 

In  short,  so  far  as  game  goes,  there  's  no  more 
left  in  the  land  save  one  old  rogue  of  a  hare,  escaped 
as  by  miracle  from  the  September  massacres  of  the 
Tarasconians,  and  stubbornly  determined  to  live. 
This  hare  is  very  well  known  at  Tarascon.  A  name 
has.  been  given  him.  He  is  called,  "-The  Rapid."  It 


7^ARTARIN   OF   TARASCON  II 

is  known  that  he  has  his  form  on  M.  Bompard's 
grounds,  —  and  this,  by  the  way,  has  doubled,  ay, 
tripled,  the  value  of  the  property,  —  but  no  one  as 
yet  has  managed  to  get  him. 

At  the  present  time,  only  two  or  three  inveterate 
fellows  worry  themselves  about  him. 

The  rest  have  given  him  up,  and  "  The  Rapid  " 
long  ago  passed  into  the  legendary  world,  although 
the  Tarasconian  is  by  nature  very  slightly  supersti- 
tious, and  eats  ragouts  of  swallows  whenever  he  can 
get  them. 

—  Ah,  but  that  won't  do  !  you  will  say.  If  game 
is  so  scarce  at  Tarascon,  what  do  the  Tarasconian 
sportsmen  do  every  Sunday  ? 

What  do  they  do  ? 

Why,  good  gracious!  they  go  out  into  the  real 
country  two  or  three  miles  from  town.  They  gather 
in  knots  of  five  or  six,  stretch  themselves  out  tran- 
quilly in  the  shade  of  some  well,  old  wall,  or  olive- 
tree,  extract  from  their  game-bags  a  good-sized 
piece  of  spiced  beef,  raw  onions,  a  big  sausage,  a 
few  anchovies,  and  begin  an  interminable  luncheon, 
washed  down  with  one  of  those  nice  Rhone  wines, 
which  make  one  laugh  and  make  one  sing. 

After  that,  when  they  are  thoroughly  set  up,  they 
rise,  whistle  the  dogs  to  heel,  cock  their  guns,  and 
go  "  on  the  shoot."  That  is  to  say,  every  man  of 
them  doffs  his  cap,  shies  it  up  with  all  his  might  into 
the  air,  and  pops  at  it  with  No.  5,  6,  or  2  shot, 
according  to  regulations. 

He  who  hits  the  cap  oftenest  is  proclaimed  King 
of  the  sport,  and  returns  triumphantly  at  evening  to 


12 


TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON 


Tarascon,  with  his  riddled  cap  on  the  end  of  his  gun, 
accompanied  by  the  barking  of  dogs  and  the  flourish 
of  trumpets. 


It  is  needless  to  say  that  cap-selling  is  a  fine  busi- 
ness in  the  town.  There  are  even  some  hatters  who 
sell  hunting-caps  ready  shot,  torn,  and  perforated  for 
poor  marksmen ;  but  almost  the  only  one  known 
to  buy  this  kind  is  the  apothecary  Bezuquet.  It  is 
dishonorable ! 


TARTAR  IN  OF  TARASCON  13 

As  a  crack  shot  at  caps,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 
aever  had  his  match. 

Every  Sunday  morning  he  went  out  in  a  new  cap, 
and  every  Sunday  evening  he  came  back  with  a  mere 
thing  of  shreds.  The  garrets  of  the  little  Baobab 
Villa  were  full  of  these  glorious  trophies.  Hence  all 
the  Tarasconians  acknowledged  him  as  their  master; 
and  as  Tartarin  thoroughly  understood  the  hunts- 
man's code,  as  he  had  read  all  the  handbooks  of  all 
possible  kinds  of  venery,  from  cap-popping  to  Bur- 
mese tiger-shooting,  these  gentlemen  constituted  him 
their  great  cynegetical  umpire,  and  took  him  for  ref- 
eree in  all  their  differences. 

Between  three  and  four  daily,  at  Costecalde  the 
gunsmith's,  a  stern,  stout  man,  with  a  pipe  between 
his  teeth,  might  be  seen  in  a  green  leather-covered 
arm-chair  in  the  centre  of  the  shop  crammed  with 
cap-hunters,  all  standing  up  and  wrangling.  This 
was  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  delivering  judgment. 
Nimrod  plus  Solomon. 


CHAPTER  III 

Nan  !    nan  !    nan  !      Continuation  of  the 
general  survey  of  the  good  town  of  Tarascon. 


Ill 


Nan  I  nan!  nan!     Continuation  of  the  general 
survey  of  the  good  town  of  Tarascon, 

TOGETHER  with  the  craze  for  sporting,  the  lusty 
Tarascon  race  cherishes  another  passion,  that  of 
singing  romances.  The  quantity  of  ballads  used 
up  in  that  little  region  is  beyond  belief!  All  the 
old  sentimental  stuff  turning  sere  and  yellow  in  the 
most  antiquated  of  portfolios,  is  to  be  found  at 
Ta-rascon  in  full  pristine  lustre.  It  is  all  there,  all 
of  it !  Every  family  has  its  own,  and  in  town  is 
well  known. 

For  instance,  it  is  known  that  the  chemist  Be"zu- 
quet's  is,  — 

Tot,  blanche  cloile  qite  f  adore ;  * 

*  "Thou  art  the  fair  star  I  adore!" 


1 8  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

the  gunmaker  Costecalde's,  — 

Veux-tu  venir  au  pays  des  cabanes:  * 
the  official  registrar's  (supposed  to  be  comic),  — 

Sifetais-t-invisiblepersonne  ft1  me  verrait  ;t 
and  so  on  for  all  Tarascon.  Two  or  three  times  a 
week  they  met  at  each  other's  houses,  where  these 
were  sung*  The  strange  thing  about  it  is  that  they  are 
always  the  same,  and  that  these  honest  Tarasconians 
have  never  had  an  inclination  to  change  them,  long 
as  they  have  been  singing  them.  They  are  handed 
down  from  father  to  son  in  the  families,  and  no 
one  ventures  to  improve  on  them;  they  are  sacred. 
There  is  never  any  attempt  made  to  borrow  from  one 
another.  Never  would  it  occur  to  the  Costecaldes' 
mind  to  sing  the  Bezuquets',  or  the  Bdzuquets  to  try 
the  Costecaldes'.  And  yet  you  may  believe  that 
they  ought  to  know  by  heart  what  had  been  sung 
for  forty  years!  But,  no!  every  one  sticks  to  his 
own,  and  they  are  all  contented. 

In  romance-singing,  as  in  cap-popping,  Tartarin  was 
still  the  foremost.  His  superiority  over  his  fellow- 
townsmen  consisted  in  this:  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 
had  no  one  song  of  his  own.  He  had  them  all ! 

All! 

But  it  was  the  devil's  own  work  to  get  hiir  to  sing 

o 

them. 

Surfeited  early  in  life  with  his  drawing-room  tri- 
umphs, the  Tarascon  hero  preferred  by  far  to  bury 

*  "  WUt  thou  come  to  the  land 

Where  the  log-cabins  stand  ?  " 
t  "  If  I  were  only  invisible, 

No  one  could  see  me." 


TARTAR  IN  OF  TARASCON  19 

himself  in  his  hunting  story-books,  or  to  spend  the 
evening  at  the  club,  rather  than  to  make  a  personal 
exhibition  before  a  Nimes  piano  between  a  pair  of 
Tarascon  candles.  These  musical  parades  seemed 
beneath  him.  .  .  . 

Nevertheless,  at  times,  when  there  was  music  at 
Bdzuquet's,  he  would  drop  into  the  apothecary  shop 
as  if  by  chance,  and,  after  a  deal  of  urging,  consent 
to  do  the  grand  duo  in  Robert  le  Diable  with  old 
Madame  Be*zuquet.  .  .  . 

Whoso  never  heard  that,  never  heard  anything . . . ! 

For  my  part,  even  if  I  lived  a  hundred  years,  I 
should  always  see  the  mighty  Tartarin  approaching 
the  piano  with  solemn  step,  leaning  on  his  elbow, 
getting  his  mouth  ready,  and,  beneath  the  green 
reflection  from  the  show-bottles  in  the  window, 
trying  to  give  his  pleasant  visage  the  fierce  and 
satanic  expression  of  Robert  the  Devil. 

Hardly  would  he  fall  into  position  before  the 
whole  audience  would  be  shuddering;  it  was  felt 
that  something  great  was  at  hand.  .  .  . 

Then  after  a  hush,  old  Madame  Bdzuquet  would 
begin  to  her  own  accompaniment :  — 

Robert,  tot  quefalme 
Et  qiti  refits  mafoi, 
Tu  vois  man  affroi,  (bis) 
Grace  pour  toi-meme 
Et  grclce  pour  mot.* 

*  "  Robert,  thou  whom  I  love, 

And  who  didst  receive  my  plighted  faith, 
Thou  seest  my  despair,  — 
Pardon  for  thyself 
And  pardon  for  me  ! " 


20  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

In  a  whisper  she  would  add:  "Now,  then, 
Tartarin  !  "  and  Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  with  extended 
arm,  clenched  fists,  and  quivering  nostrils,  would 
roar  three  times  in  a  formidable  voice,  rolling  like  a 
thunder-clap  in  the  bowels  of  the  instrument:  — 

"  Non  .  .  .  !  non  .  .  .  /  non  .  .  .  /  "  which,  like  the 
thorough  Southerner  he  was,  he  pronounced  nasally 
as  " Nan  .  .  .  !  nan  .  .  .  /  nan  .  .  .  /"  Then  would 
old  Madame  Be"zuquet  again  sing :  — 

Gr&ce pour  toi-meme 
Et  grace  pour  moi .' 

"  Nan  .  .  .  /  nan  .  .  .  /  nan  .  .  .  / "  bellowed  Tar- 
tarin at  his  loudest,  and  there  the  gem  ended. 

Not  long,  you  see ;  but  it  was  so  handsomely 
voiced  forth,  so  clearly  gesticulated,  and  so  diaboli- 
cal, that  a  tremor  of  terror  overran  the  apothecary 
shop,  and  the  "  Nan  .  .  .  .'  nan  .  .  .  !  nan  .  .  .  / " 
would  be  encored  four  or  five  times  running. 

Upon  this  Tartarin  would  sponge  his  brow,  smile 
on  the  ladies,  wink  at  the  men,  and  withdrawing 
upon  his  triumph  would  go  remark  at  the  club  with 
a  trifling,  offhand  air, — 

"  I  have  just  been  at  the  Bdzuquets',  singing  the 
duo  from  Robert  le  Diable." 

The  cream  of  the  joke  was  that  he  really  believed 
it!  . 


CHAPTER  IV 
"Tfoy!" 


IV 


"  They  !  " 

THESE  diverse  talents  gave  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 
his  high  position  in  the  town. 

However,  this  deuce  of  a  fellow  knew  how  to 
captivate  every  one. 

The  army,  at  Tarascon,  was  for  Tartarin.  The 
gallant  commandant,  Bravida,  the  quartermaster  on 
the  retired  list,  called  him  un  lapin,  —  a  buck  rabbit, 
—  and  you  may  imagine  that  the  commandant  knew 
all  about  rabbits  after  having  dressed  so  many! 

23 


24  TARTAR  IN  OF  TARASCON 

The  magistracy  was  for  Tartarin.  Two  or  three 
times,  in  open  court,  the  old  chief  judge,  Ladeveze, 
had  said,  in  alluding  to  him,  — 

"  He  is  a  character  !  " 

Lastly,  the  people  were  for  Tartarin.  He  was  the 
Lord  Seymour  of  the  place,  the  King  of  the  Taras- 
conian  markets ;  and  this  was  due  to  his  breadth  of 
shoulders,  his  gait,  his  bearing,  —  the  bearing  of  a 
trumpeter's  charger  fearing  no  noise, — to  his  repu- 
tation as  a  hero  which  he  had  acquired  from  some 
unknown  source,  and  to  some  scattering  of  coppers 
and  of  thumps  among  the  little  bootblacks  basking 
at  his  doorway. 

Along  the  quais  on  Sunday  evenings,  when  Tar- 
tarin came  home  from  hunting  with  his  cap  on  the 
end  of  his  gun,  and  his  fustian  shooting-jacket 
belted  in  tightly,  the  stevedores  of  the  Rhone  would 
respectfully  salute  him,  and,  blinking  toward  the 
huge  biceps  swelling  out  his  arms,  would  mutter 
to  one  another  in  admiration, — 

"That  there's  a  powerful  chap!  ...  he  has 
double-muscles  ! " 

DOUBLE   MUSCLES! 

Only  at  Tarascon  are  such  things  known ! 

And  yet,  with  all  his  numberless  talents,  his 
double  muscles,  the  popular  favor,  and  the  so  pre- 
cious esteem  of  the  gallant  Commandant  Bravida, 
ex-quartermaster,  Tartarin  was  not  happy:  this  life 
in  a  petty  town  weighed  upon  him,  suffocated  him. 

The  great  man  of  Tarascon  was  bored  in  Tarascon. 

The  fact  is,  for  a  heroic  temperament  like  his,  for 
a  wild  adventurous  spirit  dreaming  of  nothing  but 


TARTAR  IN  OF  TARASCON  2$ 

battles,  races  across  the  pampas,  mighty  battues, 
desert  sands,  blizzards  and  typhoons,  it  was  not 
enough  to  go  out  every  Sunday  to  pop  at  a  cap,  and 
the  rest  of  the  time  to  act  as  umpire  at  the  gun- 
maker  Costecalde's.  .  .  .  Poor  dear  great  man  !  Had 
this  existence  been  prolonged,  there  would  have 
been  sufficient  reason  for  him  to  die  of  consumption. 

In  vain  did  he  surround  himself  with  baobabs 
and  other  African  trees,  to  widen  his  horizon,  and 
some  little  to  forget  his  club  and  the  market-place  ; 
in  vain  did  he  pile  weapon  upon  weapon,  and  Malay 
kreese  upon  Malay  kreese  ;  in  vain  did  he  cram 
with  romantic  reading,  endeavoring  like  the  immor- 
tal Don  Quixote  to  wrench  himself  by  the  vigor  of 
his  fancy  out  of  the  talons  of  pitiless  reality.  .  .  . 
Alas !  all  that  he  did  to  appease  his  thirst  for 
deeds  of  daring  only  helped  to  augment  it.  The 
sight  of  all  the  murderous  implements  kept  him  in 
a  perpetual  stew  of  wrath  and  excitement.  His 
rifles,  arrows,  and  lassoes  cried  to  him:  "Battle! 
battle  !  "  The  tempest  of  great  travels  blew  through 
the  branches  of  his  baobab  and  gave  him  bad  ad- 
vice. To  finish  him,  Gustave  Aimard  and  Fenimore 
Cooper.  .  .  . 

Oh,  how  many  times  on  sultry  summer  afternoons, 
when  he  was  reading  alone  amidst  his  blades,  did 
Tartarin  with  a  howl  spring  up;  how  many  times 
did  he  dash  down  his  book  and  rush  to  the  wall  to 
unhook  a  deadly  weapon  ! 

The  poor  man,  forgetting  that  he  was  at  home  in 
Tarascon,  in  his  underclothes,  and  with  a  handker- 
chief round  his  head,  would  translate  his  readings 


26  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

into  action,  and,  growing  excited  at  the  sound  of  his 
own  voice,  shout  out  while  swinging  a  battle-axe  or 
tomahawk,  — 

"  Now,  let  'em  come ! " 

Them  ?  who  were  they  f 

Tartarin  himself  did  not  know.  .  .  .  They  was 
all  that  attacks,  all  that  fights,  all  that  bites,  all  that 
claws,  all  that  scalps,  all  that  whoops,  all  that 
yells.  .  .  .  They !  It  was  the  Sioux  Indian  dancing 
around  the  war-stake  to  which  the  unfortunate  pale- 
face is  lashed. 

It  was  the  grizzly  of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  which 
waddles  and  licks  himself  with  a  tongue  full  of  blood. 
Again  it  was  the  Touareg  of  the  desert,  the  Malay 
pirate,  the  brigand  of  the  Abruzzi.  ...  In  short, 
they !  it  was  they, .  .  .  that  is  to  say,  warfare,  travel, 
adventure,  glory. 

But,  alas !  it  was  in  vain  that  the  intrepid  Taras- 
conian  called  for  them,  defied  them;  .  .  .  never  did 
they  come.  Odsboddikins !  what  would  they  have 
come  to  do  in  Tarascon? 

Nevertheless,  Tartarin  was  always  expecting  them, 
particularly  at  eventide  in  going  to  the  club. 


CHAPTER  V 
How  Tartarin  went  round  to  his  club. 


V 


Hoiv  Tartarin  went  round  to  his  club. 


THE  Knight  Templar  preparing  for  a  sortie  upon 
the  besieging  infidel,  the  Chinese  tiger  equipping 
himself  for  combat,  the  Comanche  warrior  about 
to  go  on  the  war-path,  —  all  these  were  as  nothing 
compared  to  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  arming  himself 
cap-a-pie  to  go  to  his  club  at  nine,  an  hour  after  the 
retreat  had  sounded  on  the  bugle. 

"  Clear  the  decks  for  action  !"  as  the  men-of-war's 
men  say. 

In  his  left  hand  Tartarin  took  a  steel-pointed 
knuckle-duster;  in  the  right  he  carried  a  sword- 
cane  ;  in  his  left  pocket  a  tomahawk ;  in  the  right 

29 


30  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

a  revolver.  On  his  chest,  betwixt  outer  and  under 
garment,  lay  a  Malay  kreese.  But  never  any  poi- 
soned arrows,  —  they  are  weapons  altogether  too 
unfair !  .  .  . 

Before  starting,  in  the  silence  and  gloom  of  his 
study,  he  would  exercise  himself  for  a  while,  ward- 
ing off  imaginary  cuts  and  thrusts,  lunging  at  the 
wall,  and  giving  his  muscles  play ;  then  he  would 
take  his  master-key  and  go  through  the  garden 
leisurely,  without  hurrying.  Cool  and  calm,  —  Brit- 
ish courage,  that  is  the  true  sort,  gentlemen. 

At  the  garden  end  he  would  open  the  heavy  iron 
door.  He  would  open  it  violently  and  abruptly,  so 
that  it  should  slam  against  the  outer  wall.  If  they 
had  been  skulking  behind  it,  you  may  wager  they 
would  have  been  jam  .  .  .  Unhappily  they  were  not 
there. 

The  door  being  open,  Tartarin  would  sally  out, 
quickly  glancing  to  the  right  and  left,  ere  banging 
the  door  to  and  fastening  it  smartly  with  double- 
locking.  Then,  away. 

Not  even  a  cat  on  the  Avignon  road,  —  doors 
closed;  lights  out.  All  was  black.  At  intervals  the 
street  lamps,  blinking  in  the  mist  of  the  Rh6ne.  .  .  . 

Calm  and  proud,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  marched 
on  in  the  night,  ringing  his  heels  with  regularity, 
and  striking  sparks  out  of  the  paving-stones  with 
the  ferule  of  his  stick.  .  .  .  Whether  in  avenues, 
streets,  or  lanes,  he  took  care  to  keep  in  the  middle 
of  the  road, —  an  excellent  method  of  precaution, 
allowing  one  to  see  danger  coming,  and,  above  all,  to 
avoid  what  is  sometimes  thrown  from  windows  after 


TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON  31 

dark  in  Tarascon.  On  seeing  so  much  prudence 
in  Tartarin,  pray  do  not  conclude  that  Tartarin  was 
afraid.  .  .  .  No !  he  was  only  on  his  guard. 

The  best  proof  that  Tartarin  was  not  afraid  is 
that  instead  of  going  to  the  club  by  the  street  called 
the  Cours,  he  went  by  the  town,  that  is  to  say,  by 
the  longest  and  darkest  way  round,  through  a  maze 
of  vile,  paltry  alleys,  at  the  mouth  of  which  the 
Rhone  could  be  seen  ominously  gleaming.  The 
poor  man  constantly  hoped  that,  beyond  the  turn  of 
one  of  these  cut-throats'  haunts,  they  would  leap 
from  the  shadow  and  fall  on  his  back.  I  warrant  you, 
they  would  have  been  warmly  received.  .  .  .  But, 
alas !  by  some  irony  of  Fate,  never,  never  in  the 
world,  did  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  enjoy  the  luck  to 
meet  an  ugly  customer,  not  even  a  dog,  not  even  a 
drunken  man,  —  nothing  at  all ! 

Yet  sometimes  there  were  false  alarms.  A  sound 
of  steps,  muffled  voices.  .  .  . 

"Look  out!"  Tartarin  would  mutter,  and  stop 
short,  rooted  to  the  spot,  scrutinizing  the  gloom,  sniff- 
ing the  wind,  applying  his  ear  to  the  ground  Indian 
fashion.  .  .  .  The  steps  would  draw  nearer,  the 
voices  would  grow  distinct.  .  .  .  No  more  doubts  ! 
.  .  .  They  were  coming  .  .  .  here  they  were  ! 

Steady,  with  eye  afire  and  heaving  breast,  Tartarin, 
like  a  jaguar,  would  gather  himself  together  and 
would  be  in  readiness  to  spring  forward  while  utter- 
ing his  war-cry  .  .  .  when,  all  of  a  sudden,  out  of 
the  thick  of  the  murk'mess,  he  would  hear  honest 
Parasconian  voices  quite  tranquilly  hailing  him 
with,  — 


32  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

"TV/  Ve!  ...  it's  Tartarin!  .  .  .  And  good- 
night, Tartarin  ! " 

Curse  it!  it  was  the  druggist  Be'zuquet,  \fith  his 
family,  coming  from  singing  their  family  ballad  at 
Costecalde's. 


"  Good  evening,  good  evening!"  Tartarin  would 
growl,  furious  at  his  blunder,  and  plunging  fiercely 
into  the  night  with  his  cane  on  high. 

On  arriving  in  the  street  where  stood  his  club- 
house, the  dauntless  Tarasconian  would  linger  yet 
a  moment,  walking  up  and  down  before  the  portals 
ere  entering.  ...  At  last,  weary  of  awaiting  thetnt 


TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON  33 

and  certain  they  would  not  show  themselves,  he 
would  fling  a  last  glare  of  defiance  into  the  shades, 
and  mutter  wrathfully,  — 

"  Nothing  .  .  .  nothing  at  all !  ...  there  never  is 
anything ! " 

Whereupon  the  worthy  man  would  walk  in  to  play 
his  game  of  bdzique  with  the  commandant. 


CHAPTER  VI 
The  tzvo  Tartarins. 


VI 


The  tiuo  Tartarins. 

How  the  mischief  is  it  that  with  all  this  mania  for 
adventures,  this  need  of  powerful  sensations,  this 
craze  for  travel,  hunting,  and  journeys  to  the  ends 
of  the  earth,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  had  never  been 
away  from  Tarascon  ? 

For  that  is  a  fact.  Up  to  the  age  of  forty-five,  the 
intrepid  Tarasconian  had  never  once  gone  to  bed 
outside  his  own  city.  He  had  not  even  taken  that 
famous  trip  to  Marseilles  which  every  good  Proven- 
c,al  makes  on  coming  of  age.  It  is  doubtful  if  he 
knew  Beaucaire,  and  yet  Beaucaire  is  not  far  from 
Tarascon,  there  being  merely  the  bridge  to  go  over. 
Unfortunately,  this  rascally  bridge  has  been  so  often 
blown  away  by  the  gales,  it  is  so  long,  so  frail,  and 
the  Rhone  is  so  wide  at  this  spot,  that  —  faith!  you 

37 


38  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

understand  !  .  .  .  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  preferred  terra 
fir  ma. 

We  must  make  a  clean  breast  of  it ;  in  our  hero 
there  were  two  very  distinct  characters.  Some 
Church  Father  has  said:  "  I  feel  there  are  two  men 
in  me."  He  would  have  spoken  truly  in  saying  this 
about  Tartarin,  who  carried  in  his  frame  the  soul  of 
Don  Quixote,  the  same  chivalric  impulses,  the  same 
heroic  ideal,  the  same  craze  for  the  grandiose  and 
romantic ;  but,  unhappily !  he  had  not  the  body  of 
the  celebrated  hidalgo,  that  thin  and  meagre  body, 
that  apology  for  a  body,  over  which  material  life 
failed  to  get  control ;  one  able  to  go  twenty  nights 
without  unbuckling  its  breast-plate,  and  forty-eight 
hours  on  a  handful  of  rice.  .  .  .  On  the  contrary,  Tar- 
tarin's  body  was  a  good  honest  body,  very  fat,  very 
weighty,  very  sensual,  very  delicate,  very  squeam- 
ish, full  of  middle-class  appetites  and  homely  re- 
quirements,—  the  short-legged,  paunchy  body  of  the 
immortal  Sancho  Panza. 

Don  Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza  in  one  and  the 
same  man  !  You  will  readily  comprehend  what  a  cat- 
and-dog  couple  they  made!  what  strife!  what  clap- 
perclawing !  .  .  .  Oh  the  fine  dialogue  for  Lucian  or 
Saint-Evremond  to  write,  a  dialogue  between  the  two 
Tartarins.  —  Quixote-Tartarin  and  Sancho-Tartarin  ! 
Quixote-Tartarin  firing  up  on  the  stories  of  Gustave 
Aimard,  and  shouting,  "I  am  going!"  and  Sancho- 
Tartarin  thinking  only  of  the  rheumatics,  and  saying, 
"I  stay  at  home." 

QUIXOTE-TARTARIN  (highly  excited).  Cover 
yourself  with  glory,  Tartarin. 


TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON  39 

SANCHO-TARTARIN  (qiiite  calmly).  Tartarin, 
cover  yourself  with  flannel. 

QUIXOTE-TARTARIN  (still  more  excitedly).  Oh 
for  the  terrible  double-barrelled  rifle  !  Oh  for  bowie- 
knives,  lassoes,  and  moccasins  ! 

SANCHO-TARTARIN  (still  more  calmly).  Oh  for 
the  thick-knitted  waistcoats  and  warm  knee-caps! 
Oh  for  the  welcome  caps  with  ear-flaps  ! 

QUIXOTK-TARTAKIN  (above  all  self-control).  A 
battle-axe  !  fetch  me  a  battle-axe ! 

SANCHO-TARTARIN  (ringing  ttp  the  maid).  Jean- 
nette,  my  chocolate ! 

Whereupon  Jeannette  appears  with  an  excellent 
cup  of  chocolate,  hot,  wavy-mottled,  odoriferous,  and 
with  succulent  toast  flavored  with  aniseseed,  making 
Sancho-Tartarin  laugh  as  he  drowned  the  shouts  of 
Quixote-Tartarin. 

And  thus  it  came  about  that  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 
had  never  been  away  from  Tarascon. 


CHAPTER  VII 

The  Europeans  at  Shanghai — Commerce 
—  The  Tartars  —  Can  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 
be  an  impostor  ? —  The  mirage. 


VII 


The  Europeans  at  Shanghai  —  Commerce  —  The 
Tartars  —  Can  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  be  an 
impostor  ?  —  The  mirage. 

ONCE,  however,  had  Tartarin  almost  started  out 
on  a  great  journey. 

The  three  brothers  Garcio-Camus,  natives  of  Ta- 
rascon, established  in  business  at  Shanghai,  offered 
him  the  managership  of  one  of  their  branches 
there.  This  undoubtedly  was  the  kind  of  life  he 
hankered  after.  Plenty  of  important  business,  a 
whole  army  of  under-strappers  to  control,  connec- 
tions with  Russia,  Persia,  Turkey  in  Asia,  —  in  short, 
High  Commerce. 

43 


44  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

In  Tartarin's  mouth,  this  expression  le  Haul 
Commerce  —  High  Commerce  —  thundered  out  as 
something  High  indeed !  .  .  . 

The  house  of  Garcio-Camus  had  the  further  ad- 
vantage of  sometimes  being  favored  with  a  call  from 
the  Tartars.  Then  the  doors  would  be  quickly  shut. 
All  the  clerks  would  fly  to  arms,  they  would  run  up 
the  consular  flag,  and  bang !  bang  !  out  of  the  win- 
dows upon  the  Tartars  ! 

I  need  not  tell  you  with  what  enthusiasm  Quixote- 
Tartarin  clutched  this  proposition ;  sad  to  say, 
Sancho-Tartarin  did  not  see  it  in  the  same  light, 
and,  as  he  was  the  stronger  party,  it  never  came  to 
anything.  But  in  the  town  there  was  much  talk 
about  it.  Will  he  go  or  will  he  not ?  "I  '11  wager 
he  will"  —  and  "  I  '11  wager  he  won't !  "  It  was  an 
event.  ...  In  the  upshot,  Tartarin  did  not  go,  but 
the  matter  redounded  to  his  credit  none  the  less. 
Going  or  not  going  to  Shanghai  was  all  one  to 
Tarascon.  Tartarin's  journey  was  so  much  talked 
about  that  people  got  to  believe  he  had  done  it  and 
returned,  and  at  the  club  in  the  evening  all  the 
members  would  ask  him  about  life  at  Shanghai, 
about  the  manners  and  customs  and  climate,  opium, 
and  High  Commerce. 

From  his  fund  of  information  Tartarin  would 
graciously  furnish  the  particulars  desired,  and,  in 
the  end,  the  good  fellow  was  not  quite  sure  himself 
about  not  having  gone  to  Shanghai,  so  that,  after 
relating  for  the  hundredth  time  how  the  Tartars 
came  down  on  the  trading-post,  he  came  to  add  in 
the  most  natural  way,  — 


TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON  45 

"  Then  I  made  my  clerks  take  up  arms,  I  hoisted 
the  consular  flag,  and  bang !  bang !  out  of  the  win- 
dows upon  the  Tartars." 

On  hearing  this,  the  whole  club  would  quiver. 

—  But  according  to  that,  this  Tartarin  of  yours  is 
an  awful  liar. 

—  No,  no,   a  thousand  times   no !     Tartarin  was 
no  liar. 

—  But  the  man  ought  to  have  known  that  he  never 
went  to  Shanghai. 

Why,  of  course,  he  knew  it ;  only  .  .  . 

"  Only " :  now  listen  !  It  is  high  time  to  come 
to  an  understanding  once  for  all  on  the  reputation 
for  lying  which  Northerners  fling  at  Southerners. 
There  are  no  liars  in  the  South  of  France,  neither 
at  Nimes  nor  Marseilles,  Toulouse  nor  Tarascon. 
The  Southerner  does  not  lie  ;  he  is  self -deceived. 
He  does  not  always  tell  the  truth,  but  he  believes 
he  does.  .  .  .  His  falsehood  is  not  falsehood,  it  is 
a  kind  of  mirage.  .  .  . 

Yes,  mirage!  .  .  .  and  the  better  to  understand 
me,  go  South,  and  you  will  see.  You  will  see  that 
deuce  of  a  country  where  the  sun  transmogrifies 
everything,  and  magnifies  it  beyond  life-size.  You 
will  see  those  little  hills  of  Provence  which  are  no 
higher  than  the  Butte  Montmartre,  but  they  will 
loom  up  gigantic.  You  will  see  the  Square  House 
at  Nimes,  a  mere  model  to  put  on  your  whatnot, 
and  it  will  seem  grander  than  Notre  Dame.  You 
will  see  ...  in  brief,  the  only  liar  in  the  South  — 
if  there  is  one  —  is  the  sun.  .  .  .  He  exaggerates 
everything  that  he  touches !  .  .  .  What  was  Sparta 


46  TART  A  KIN  OF   TARASCON 

in  its  days  of  splendor?  A  pitiful  hamlet.  .  .  . 
What  was  Athens  ?  At  the  most,  a  provincial  town, 
.  .  .  and  yet  in  history  both  appear  to  us  as  enor- 
mous cities.  This  is  a  sample  of  what  the  sun 
can  do. 

Are  you  going  to  be  astonished  after  this  that 
the  same  sun  falling  on  Tarascon  should  have  made 
an  ex-quartermaster  like  Bravida  into  the  "gallant 
commandant  Bravida;"  a  sprout  into  a  baobab; 
and  a  man  who  had  missed  going  to  Shanghai  into 
one  who  had  been  there  ? 


CHAFFER  VIII 

Mitaincs  Menagerie  —  A  Lion  from  the 
Atlas  at  Tarascon  —  A  solemn  and  aive- 
insp iring  confron ta tion . 


VIII 

Mitaine's  Menagerie — A  lion  from  the  Atlas  at 
Tarascon  —  A  solemn  and  awe-inspiring  con- 
frontation. 

AND  now  that  we  have  shown  Tartarin  of  Taras 
con  as  he  was  in  his  private  life,  before  Fame  kissed 
his  brow  and  garlanded  him  with  her  well-worn  laurel 
wreath,  —  now  that  we  have  narrated  his  heroic 
existence  in  a  modest  state,  his  joys  and  sorrows,  his 
dreams  and  his  hopes,  —  let  us  hurriedly  skip  to 
the  grandest  pages  of  his  story,  and  to  the  singular 
event  which  was  to  give  the  first  flight  to  his 
incomparable  career. 

49 


50  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

It  happened  one  evening  at  Costecalde  the  gun- 
maker's,  Tartarin  was  engaged  in  showing  several 
sportsmen  the  working  of  the  needle-gun,  then  in  its 
first  novelty.  .  .  .  The  door  suddenly  flies  open,  and 
in  rushes  a  frightened  cap-hunter,  howling,  — 

"A  lion,  a  lion!" 

General  stupefaction,  alarm,  uproar,  tumult !  Tar- 
tarin sets  the  bayonet,  Costecalde  runs  to  shut  the 
door.  The  sportsman  is  surrounded  and  pressed 
and  questioned,  and  here  follows  what  he  told 
them :  Mitaine's  Menagerie,  returning  from  the 
Fair  at  Beaucaire,  had  consented  to  stay  over  a 
few  days  at  Tarascon,  and  had  just  set  up  the 
show  on  the  Place  du  Chateau,  with  a  lot  of  boas, 
seals,  crocodiles,  and  a  magnificent  lion  from  the 
Atlas  Mountains. 

An  African  lion  in  Tarascon  ! 

Never  in  the  memory  of  man  had  the  like  been 
seen.  Hence  how  proudly  our  dauntless  cap-hunters 
looked  at  one  another!  What  a  beaming  on  their 
manly  faces !  and  in  every  corner  of  Costecalde's 
shop  what  hearty  congratulatory  grips  of  the  hand 
were  silently  exchanged !  The  sensation  was  so 
great,  so  unforeseen,  that  nobody  could  find  a  word 
to  say.  .  .  . 

Not  even  Tartarin. 

Blanched  and  agitated,  with  the  needle-gun  still  in 
hia  hands,  he  brooded,  erect  before  the  counter.  .  .  . 
A  lion  from  the  Atlas  there,  so  near,  only  two  steps 
off!  A  lion,  —  the  beast  heroic  and  ferocious  above 
all  others,  the  King  of  the  Brute  Creation,  the  crown- 
ing game  of  his  fancies,  something  like  the  leading 


TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON  51 

actor  in  the  ideal  company  which  played  such 
splendid  dramas  in  his  imagination.  .  .  . 

A  lion,  ye  Gods !  .  .  . 

And  from  the  Atlas,  to  boot!  It  was  more  than 
the  great  Tartarin  could  bear. 

Suddenly  a  flush  of  blood  flew  into  his  face. 

His  eyes  flashed.  With  one  convulsive  movement 
he  shouldered  the  needle-gun,  and  turning  toward 
the  gallant  Commandant  Bravida,  ex-quartermaster, 
he  thundered  to  him,  — 

"  Let 's  go  have  a  look  at  him,  commandant." 

"  He  !  be .  .  .  I  he  I  be  !  .  .  .  And  my  gun  .  .  .  you 
are  carrying  off  my  needle-gun!"  timidly  ventured 
the  prudent  Costecalde;  but  Tartarin  had  already 
got  round  the  corner,  with  all  the  cap-hunters 
proudly  marching  in  lock-step  behind  him. 

When  they  reached  the  menagerie,  they  found  a 
goodly  number  of  people  there.  Tarascon,  heroic 
but  too  long  deprived  of  sensational  shows,  had 
rushed  upon  Mitaine's  booth,  and  had  taken  it  by 
storm.  Hence  the  voluminous  Madame  Mitaine 
was  highly  contented.  ...  In  a  Kabyl  costume,  her 
arms  bare  to  the  elbow,  iron  anklets  on,  a  whip  in 
one  hand  and  a  plucked  though  live  fowl  in  the 
other,  the  illustrious  lady  was  doing  the  honors  of 
the  booth  to  the  Tarasconians :  and  as  she  also  had 
"  double  muscles,"  her  success  was  almost  as  great 
as  her  animals'. 

The  entrance  of  Tartarin  with  the  gun  on  his 
shoulder  was  a  damper. 

All  these  good  Tarasconians,  who  had  been  quite 
tranquilly  strolling  before  the  cages,  unarmed  and 


52  TARTAR  IN  OF   TARASCON 

with  no  distrust,  without  even  any  idea  of  danger, 
felt  momentary  apprehension,  naturally  enough,  on 
beholding  their  mighty  Tartarin  rush  into  the  en- 
closure with  his  formidable  engine  of  war.  There 
must  be  something  to  fear  when  such  a  hero  as  he 
was  .  .  . 

In  a  twinkling  all  the  space  along  the  cage  fronts 
was  cleared.  The  youngsters  burst  out  squalling 
for  fear;  the  women  looked  round  for  the  door. 
The  druggist  Bdzuquet  made  off  altogether,  alleging 
that  he  was  going  home  for  his  gun.  .  .  . 

Gradually,  however,  Tartarin's  bearing  restored 
courage.  With  head  erect,  the  intrepid  Tarasconian 
slowly  and  calmly  made  the  circuit  of  the  booth, 
passed  the  seal's  tank  without  stopping,  glanced 
disdainfully  on  the  long  box  rilled  with  bran  in 
which  the  boa  was  scanning  its  featherless  fowl,  and 
went  to  take  his  stand  before  the  lion's  cage.  .  .  . 

A  terrible  and  solemn  confrontation  ! 

The  lion  of  Tarascon  and  the  lion  of  the  Atlas 
face  to  face  !  .  .  . 

On  the  one  hand,  Tartarin,  erect,  rigid,  his  arms 
folded  on  his  rifle  ;  on  the  other,  the  lion,  a  gigantic 
lion,  stretched  out  on  the  straw,  with  blinking  eyes 
and  brutish  mien,  resting  his  huge  muzzle  and  tawny 
wig  on  his  forepaws.  .  .  .  Both  calm  and  gazing  at 
each  other. 

Singular  thing !  the  needle-gun  may  have  put  him 
out  of  sorts,  or  he  may  have  scented  an  enemy  of 
his  race,  but  the  lion,  which  had  hitherto  regarded 
the  Tarasconians  with  sovereign  scorn,  and  yawned 
in  their  faces,  was  all  at  once  affected  by  ire.  At 


TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON  53 

first  he  sniffed  ;  then  he  growled  hollowly,  unsheathed 
his  claws,  stretched  out  his  paws ;  then  he  rose, 
tossed  his  head,  shook  his  mane,  opened  his  enor- 
mous mouth,  and  belched  a  deafening  roar  at 
Tartarin. 

A  yell  of  fright  responded.  Tarascon  precipitated 
itself  madly  towards  the  exit,  all,  —  women  and  chil- 
dren, stevedores,  cap-hunters,  the  gallant  Comman- 
dant Bravida  himself.  .  .  .  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 
alone  did  not  budge.  .  .  .  There  he  stood,  firm  and 
resolute,  before  the  cage,  lightnings  in  his  eyes,  and 
that  gruesome  expression  with  which  all  the  town 
was  familiar.  ...  In  a  moment's  time,  when  all  the 
cap-hunters,  some  little  fortified  by  his  bearing  and 
the  strength  of  the  bars,  re-approached  their  leader, 
they  heard  him  mutter,  at  he  gazed  at  the  lion, — 

"Now,  this  is  something  to  hunt !  " 

That  day,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  said  nothing  more 
about  it. 


CHAPTER  IX 


Singular  effects  of  mirage. 


IX 


Singular  effects  of  mirage. 

THAT  day  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  said  nothing 
more  about  it,  but  unfortunately  he  had  already 
said  too  much. 

On  the  morrow  there  was  nothing  talked  about 
through  town  but  the  speedy  departure  of  Tartarin 
for  Algeria  and  lion-hunting.  You  are  all  wit- 
ness, clear  readers,  that  the  honest  fellow  had  not 
breathed  a  word  on  that  head;  but,  you  know,  the 
mirage  .  .  . 

In  brief,  all  Tarascon  spoke  of  nothing  but  his 
departure. 

On  the  "  Cours,"  at  the  club,  at  Costecalde's,  friends 
accosted  one  another  with  a  startled  aspect,  — 

"And  furthermore,  you  know  the  news,  at  least?" 

57 


58  TARTARIN  OF  TAR  A  SCON 

"  And  furthermore,  rather  ?  Tartarin  's  setting  out, 
at  least  ?  " 

For  at  Tarascon  all  phrases  begin  with  et  autre- 
tnent,  pronounced  aiiiretnain,  and  conclude  with  au 
mains,  which  is  pronounced  au  mouain.  Now,  on 
this  occasion  more  than  upon  others,  these  peculiari- 
ties rang  out  till  the  windows  shivered. 

The  man  in  town  most  surprised  to  hear  that  he 
was  going  off  to  Africa,  was  Tartarin  himself.  But 
only  see  what  vanity  is  !  Instead  of  plumply  an- 
swering that  he  was  not  going  at  all,  and  had  never 
had  any  such  intention,  poor  Tartarin,  the  first  time 
this  journey  was'  mentioned  to  him,  observed  with 
a  neat  little  evasive  air.  "  He"  !  ...  h^ !  ...  may- 
be I  shall,  —  but  I  do  not  say  as  much."  The 
second  time,  a  trifle  more  familiarized  with  the  idea, 
he  replied,  "  Very  likely."  The  third  time,  "It's 
certain." 

Finally,  in  the  evening,  at  Costecalde?s  and  the 
club,  carried  away  by  the  egg-nog,  cheers,  and 
illumination,  intoxicated  by  the  impression  that 
announcement  of  his  departure  had  made  on  the 
town,  the  hapless  fellow  formally  declared  that  he 
was  sick  of  hunting  caps,  and  that  he  was  going, 
before  long,  to  engage  in  pursuing  the  great  lions 
of  the  Atlas.  .  .  . 

A  deafening  hurrah  greeted  this  announcement. 
Whereupon  more  egg-nog,  bravoes,  hand-shaking, 
slappings  of  the  shoulder,  and  a  torchlight  serenade 
up  to  midnight  before  Boabab  Villa. 


TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON  59 

Sancho-Tartarin  was  anything  but  delighted.  This 
idea  of  travel  in  Africa  and  lion-hunting  made  him 
shudder  beforehand ;  and  when  the  two  Tartarins 
went  home  again,  even  while  the  complimentary 
concert  was  sounding  under  their  windows,  he  had 
a  dreadful  "row"  with  Quixote-Tartarin,  calling 
him  "cracked,"  visionary,  imprudent,  and  thrice  an 
idiot,  and  detailing  by  the  card  all  the  catastrophes 
awaiting  him  on  such  an  expedition,  —  shipwreck, 
rheumatism,  high-fever,  dysentery,  the  black  plague, 
elephantiasis,  and  all  the  rest.  .  .  . 

In  vain  did  Quixote-Tartarin  vow  that  he  would 
not  commit  any  imprudence,  —  that  he  would  wrap 
himself  up  well,  that  he  would  take  everything  that 
was  necessary  with  him.  Sancho-Tartar«in  would 
listen  to  nothing.  The  poor  man  saw  himself  already 
torn  to  tatters  by  the  lions,  engulfed  in  the  desert 
sands  like  the  late  Cambyses  ;  and  the  other  Tartarin 
managed  to  appease  him  a  little  only  by  explain- 
ing that  the  start  was  not  immediate,  that  there  was 
no  hurry,  and  that  after  all  they  were  still  at  home  ! 

It  is  clear  enough,  indeed,  that  no  one  embarks  on 
such  an  enterprise  without  some  precautions.  A 
man  is  bound  to  know  whither  he  goes,  hang  it  all ! 
and  not  fly  off  like  a  bird.  .  .  . 

Before  anything  else,  the  Tarasconian  wanted  to 
peruse  the  accounts  of  great  African  explorers,  the 
narrations  of  Mungo  Park,  Du  Chaillu,  Dr.  Living- 
stone, and  Henri  Duveyrier. 

In  them  he  learnt  that  these  daring  explorers, 
before  donning  their  sandals  for  distant  excursions, 
hardened  themselves  well  beforehand  to  support 


60  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

hunger  and  thirst,  forced  marches,  and  all  kinds  of 
privation.  Tartarin  meant  to  do  as  they  did,  and 
from  that  day  forward  he  lived  upon  water  broth 
alone.  —  The  water  broth  of  Tarascon  is  a  few 
slices  of  bread  drowned  in  hot  water,  with  a  clove 
of  garlic,  a  pinch  of  thyme,  and  a  sprig  of  laurel.  — 
Strict  diet,  at  which  you  may  believe  poor  Sancho 
made  a  wry  face.  .  .  . 

To  the  regimen  of  water  broth  Tartarin  of  Taras- 
con joined  other  wise  practices.  Thus,  to  break  him- 
self into  the  habit  of  long  marches,  he  constrained 
himself  to  go  round  the  town  seven  or  eight  times 
consecutively  every  morning,  sometimes  at  double 
quick,  sometimes  at  a  gymnastic  pace,  his  elbows 
well  set  against  his  body,  and  two  white  pebbles  in 
his  mouth,  according  to  the  antique  usage. 

Then,  to  get  inured  to  fog,  dew,  and  the  cool  night 
air,  he  would  go  down  into  his  garden  every  evening, 
and  stay  there  till  ten  or  eleven,  alone  with  his  gun, 
on  the  lookout,  behind  the  baobab.  .  .  . 

Finally,  so  long  as  Mitaine's  Menagerie  tarried  in 
Tarascon,  the  cap-hunters  belated  at  Costecalde's 
might  spy  in  the  shadow  of  the  tent,  as  they  crossed 
the  Place  du  Chateau,  a  mysterious  figure  stalking 
up  and  down. 

It  was  Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  habituating  himself 
to  hear  without  emotion  the  roarings  of  the  lion  in 
the  sombre  night. 


CHAPTER  X 
Before  the  start. 


Before  the  start, 

WHILE  Tartarin  was  thus  delaying  the  event  by 
all  sorts  of  heroic  means,  all  Tarascon  kept  an  eye 
on  him,  and  nothing  else  was  thought  of.  Cap- 
popping  flapped  only  one  wing,  romances  lay  fallow. 
The  piano  in  Be"zuquet's  apothecary  shop  languished 
under  its  green  cover,  and  the  Spanish  flies  dried 
up  on  it,  their  bellies  in  the  air.  .  .  .  Tartarin's  expe- 
dition had  put  a  stopper  on  everything. 

You  ought  to  have  seen  his  success  in  the  parlors. 
He  was  snatched  away  by  one  from  another,  fought 
for,  loaned  and  borrowed,  ay,  stolen.  There  was  no 
greater  honor  for  the  ladies  than  to  go  to  Mitaine's 
Menagerie  on  Tartarin's  arm,  and  have  it  explained 

6.3 


64  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

before  the  lion's  cage  how  such  large  game  are 
hunted,  where  they  should  be  aimed  at,  at  how  many 
paces  off,  if  the  accidents  were  numerous,  and  the 
like. 

Tartarin  furnished  all  the  elucidation  desired. 
He  had  read  Jules  Gerard,  and  had  lion-hunting  at 
his  finger  ends,  as  if  he  had  been  through  it  him- 
self. Hence  he  orated  on  these  matters  with  great 
eloquence. 

But  where  he  shone  the  brightest  was  at  dinner 
at  Chief  Judge  Ladeveze's,  or  the  gallant  Comman- 
dant Bravida's  the  ex-quartermaster,  when  coffee  was 
brought  in,  and  all  the  company  hitched  up  their 
chairs  closer,  and  made  him  chat  of  his  future 
hunts.  .  .  . 

Then,  with  his  elbow  on  the  cloth,  his  nose  over 
his  Mocha,  the  hero  would  discourse  in  a  feeling  tone 
of  all  the  dangers  awaiting  him  yonder.  He  would 
speak  of  the  long  moonless  night  lyings-in-wait,  the 
pestilential  fens,  the  rivers  poisoned  by  oleander 
leaves,  the  deep  snow-drifts,  the  scorching  suns,  the 
scorpions,  and  rains  of  grasshoppers;  he  would  also 
descant  on  the  peculiarities  of  the  great  lions  of  the 
Atlas,  their  way  of  fighting,  their  phenomenal  vigor, 
and  their  ferocity  in  the  mating-season.  .  .  . 

Then,  growing  enthusiastic  over  his  own  recital, 
he  would  rise  from  table,  bound  into  the  middle  of 
the  dining-room,  imitating  the  bellowing  of  a  lion 
and  the  going  off  of  a  rifle,  —  bang !  bang  !  —  the  hiss- 
ing of  an  explosive  bullet,  —  pfft !  pff t !  —  gesticulat- 
ing, roaring,  overturning  the  chairs.  .  .  . 

Every  one   around   the   board   would   turn  pale. 


TARTARIN  OF   TAR  A  SCON  65 

The  gentlemen  would  look  at  one  another  and  wag 
their  heads ;  the  ladies  would  shut  their  eyes  with 
pretty  screams  of  fright;  the  elderly  men  would 
combatively  brandish  their  long  canes ;  and,  in  the 
side  apartments,  the  little  boys,  who  had  been  put 
to  bed  betimes,  suddenly  waked  up  by  the  roars  and 
imitations  of  guns,  would  be  frightened  out  of  their 
wits,  and  scream  for  lights. 

Meanwhile  Tartarin  did  not  go. 


CHAPTER  XI 


"  Use  swords,  gentlemen,  not  pins" 


XI 


"  Use  swords,  gentlemen,  swords,  not  pins!" 

HAD  he  really  any  intention  of  going?  .  .  . 

A  delicate  question,  which  Tartarin's  biographer 
would  be  highly  embarrassed  to  answer. 

The  truth  is,  Mitaine's  I\fenagerie  had  been  gone 
from  Tarascon  over  three  months,  and  still  the 
lion-slayer  had  not  started.  .  .  .  After  all,  our  candid 
hero,  blinded  by  a  new  mirage,  may  have  imagined 
in  perfectly  good  faith  that  he  had  gone  to  Algeria. 
On  the  strength  of  having  related  his  future  hunts, 
he  may  have  believed  he  had  performed  them  as  sin- 
cerely as  he  fancied  he  had  hoisted  the  consular  flag 
and  fired  on  the  Tartars,  bang  !  bang  !  at  Shanghai. 


70  TARTARIN   OF   TARASCON 

Unfortunately,  granting  that  Tartarin  was  this 
time  again  dupe  of  an  illusion,  his  fellow  townsfolk 
were  not.  When,  after  three  months  of  expectation, 
they  perceived  that  the  hunter  had  not  yet  packed 
one  trunk,  they  began  to  murmur. 

"This  is  going  to  turn  out  like  the  Shanghai 
expedition,"  remarked  Costecalde,  smiling. 

The  gunsmith's  comment  was  welcomed  all  over 
town,  for  no  one  believed  any  longer  in  Tartarin. 

Simpletons  and  poltroons  —  fellows  of  Bezuquet's 
stamp,  whom  a  flea  would  put  to  flight,  and  who 
could  not  fire  a  shot  without  closing  their  eyes  — 
were  conspicuously  pitiless.  In  the  club-rooms  or 
on  the  esplanade,  they  accosted  poor  Tartarin  with 
bantering  mien,  — 

"  Et  autreinain,  when  is  that  trip  coming  off?'' 

In  Costecalde's  shop,  his  opinions  no  longer  were 
of  weight.  The  cap-hunters  renounced  their  chief ! 

Next,  epigrams  dropped  into  the  affair.  Chief 
Judge  Ladeveze,  who  in  his  leisure  hours  willingly 
paid  court  to  the  native  Muse,  composed  in  local 
dialect  a  song  which  won  much  success.  It  told  of 
a  great  huntsman  called  "  Master  Gervais,"  whose 
dreaded  rifle  was  bound  to  exterminate  all  the  lions 
in  Africa  to  the  very  last.  Unluckily,  this  terrible 
gun  was  of  a  strange  kind  :  "  though  loaded  daily, 
it  never  went  off." 

"  It  never  went  off"  — you  will  catch  the  drift. .  .  . 

In  less  than  no  time,  this  ditty  became  popular : 
and  when  Tartarin  came  by,  the  'longshoremen 
and  the  little  shoeblacks  before  his  door  sang  in 
chorus,  — 


TARTARIN  OF   TAR  A  SCON  7 1 

Lou  fftsiou  de  mestre  Gervai, 
Toujou  lou  cargon,  toujou  lou  cargon, 
Lou  fitsiou  de  mestre  Gerva'i, 
Toujou  lou  car gon,  part  jamai. 

But  it  was  sung  from  a  distance,  on  account  of  the 
double  muscles. 

Oh  the  fragility  of  Tarascon  fads !  .  .  . 

The  great  man  himself  feigned  to  see  and  hear 
nothing;  but,  under  the  surface,  this  sullen  and 
venomous  petty  warfare  much  afflicted  him.  He 
felt  Tarascon  slipping  out  of  his  grip,  the  popular 
favor  going  to  others;  and  this  made  him  suffer 
horribly. 

Ah,  the  huge  porringer  of  popularity  !  't  is  fine  to 
sit  in  front  of  it,  but  what  a  scalding  you  catch  when 
it  is  overturned  !  .  .  . 

Notwithstanding  his  pain,  Tartarin  smiled  and 
peacefully  jogged  on  in  the  same  life  as  if  nothing 
untoward  had  happened. 

Sometimes,  however,  the  mask  of  jovial  unconcern 
which  out  of  sheer  pride  he  had  fastened  over  his 
face  would  be  suddenly  detached.  Then,  in  lieu  of 
laughter,  grief  and  indignation  were  to  be  seen.  .  .  . 

Thus  it  was  that  one  morning,  when  the  little 
bootblacks  were  singing  "  lou  fusion  de  mestre 
Gervai"  beneath  his  window,  the  wretches'  voices 
rose  even  into  the  poor  great  man's  room,  where 
he  was  shaving  before  the  glass.  (Tartarin  wore  a 
full  beard,  but  as  it  grew  very  thick,  he  was  obliged 
to  watch  it.) 

All  at  once  the  window  was  violently  opened, 
and  Tartarin  appeared  in  nightgown  and  nightcap, 


72  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

smothered  in  lather,  flourishing  his  razor  and  shav- 
ing-brush, and  roaring  in  a  formidable  voice, — 

"  Use  swords,  gentlemen,  swords,  not  pins  !  ...  no 
pins ! " 

Fine  words,  worthy  of  history's  record,  with  only 
the  blemish  that  they  were  addressed  to  little 
scamps  not  higher  than  their  boot-boxes,  and  gen- 
tlemen quite  incapable  of  holding  a  sword. 


CHAPTER  XII 
What  was  said  in  the  little  Baobab  Villa. 


XII 


What  was  said  in  the  little  Baobab  Villa. 

AMID  the  general  defection,  the  army  alone  stuck 
out  firmly  for  Tartarin. 

The  gallant  Commandant  Bravida,  ex-quartermas- 
ter, continued  to  show  him  the  same  esteem  as  ever. 
Cest  un  lapin,  —  "He's  game!"  he  persisted  in 
saying ;  and  his  assertion,  I  believe,  was  fully  worth 
the  chemist  Bezuquet's.  .  .  .  Not  once  did  the  gal- 
lant commandant  make  any  allusion  to  the  trip  to 
Africa ;  but  when  the  public  clamor  grew  too  loud, 
he  determined  to  speak. 

One  evening  the  luckless  Tartarin  was  alone  in 
his  study,  in  a  brown  study  himself,  when  he  saw  the 
commandant  stride  in,  stern,  wearing  black  gloves, 
buttoned  up  to  his  ears. 

"Tartarin,"  said  the  ex-quartermaster,  authorita- 
tively, —  "  Tartarin,  you  '11  have  to  go ! " 

75 


76  TARTAR  IN  OF  TARASCOJV 

And  there  he  stood,  erect  in  the  doorway  frame, 
grand  and  rigid  as  Duty.  .  .  . 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon  comprehended  all  the  signifi- 
cance of  "  Tartarin,  you  '11  have  to  go  !  " 

Very  pale,  he  rose  and  looked  around  with  a 
softened  eye  on  his  pretty  study,  tightly  closed  in, 
full  of  warmth  and  tender  light,  —  on  his  commo- 
dious easy-chair,  his  books,  his  carpet,  the  white 
blinds  of  his  windows,  beyond  which  trembled  the 
slender  twigs  of  the  little  garden.  Then,  advancing 
toward  the  gallant  commandant,  he  took  his  hand, 
grasped  it  energetically,  and  said  in  a  voice  full  of 
tears,  but  yet  stoical,  — 

"  I  am  going,  Bravida." 

And  go  he  did,  as  he  said  he  would.  Not  straight 
off,  though  ...  it  takes  time  to  provide  paraphernalia. 

To  begin  with,  he  ordered  of  Bompard  two  large 
boxes  sheathed  with  copper,  and  with  a  long  label 
bearing  this  inscription  :  — 

TARTARIN    OF    TARASCON 


FIREARMS 

The  sheathing  and  the  lettering  took  much  time. 
He  also  ordered  at  Tastavin's  a  magnificent  album, 
in  which  to  keep  a  diary  and  his  impressions  of 
travel;  for  a  man  can  not  help  having  an  idea  or 
two  strike  him  even  when  he  is  busy  lion-hunting. 

Next,  he  had  over  from  Marseilles  a  downright 
cargo  of  canned  eatables,  pemmican  compressed  in 


TARTAR  IN  OF  TARASCON  JJ 

cakes  for  making  soup,  a  new  pattern  shelter-tent, 
opening  out  and  packing  up  in  a  minute,  sea-boots, 
two  umbrellas,  a  waterproof  coat,  and  blue  specta- 
cles to  ward  off  ophthalmia.  Finally,  Bdzuquet  the 
druggist  made  him  up  a  miniature  portable  medicine- 
chest  stuffed  with  diachylon  plaster,  arnica,  cam- 
phor, and  medicated  vinegar. 

Poor  Tartarin  !  he  did  not  do  these  things  on  his 
own  behalf;  but  he  hoped,  by  dint  of  precautions 
and  delicate  attentions,  to  allay  Sancho-Tartarin's 
fury,  who,  since  the  start  was  fixed,  never  left  off 
raging  day  or  night. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
The  departure. 


XIII 
77^  departure. 

AT  last  it  arrived,  —  the  great  day,  the  solemn  day. 

From  early  dawn  all  Tarascon  had  been  on  foot, 
encumbering  the  Avignon  road  and  the  approaches 
to  the  Baobab  Villa. 

People  were  up  at  the  windows,  on  the  roofs,  and 
in  the  trees;  the  Rhone  bargees,  stevedores,  shoe- 
blacks, gentry,  tradesfolk,  warpers  and  weavers,  taf- 
fety-workers,  the  club  members,  — -  in  short,  the  whole 
town  ;  moreover,  people  from  Beaucaire  had  come 
over  the  bridge,  market-gardeners  from  the  suburbs, 
carts  with  huge  awnings,  vine-dressers  upon  hand- 
some mules,  tricked  out  with  ribbons,  streamers, 
bells,  rosettes,  and  jingles,  and  even,  here  and  there, 

81 


82  TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON 

a  few  pretty  maids  from  Aries,  come  on  the  pillion 
behind  their  sweethearts,  with  bonny  blue  ribbons 
round  their  heads,  on  little  iron-gray  Camargue 
horses. 

All  this  swarm  squeezed  and  jostled  before  the 
door  of  Tartarin,  our  good  Tartarin,  who  was  going 
to  slaughter  lions  in  the  land  of  the  Teurs. 

For  Tarascon,  Algeria,  Africa,  Greece,  Persia, 
Turkey,  and  Mesopotamia  all  form  one  great  hazy 
country,  almost  mythological,  called  the  land  of  the 
Teurs,  —  that  is,  the  Turks. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  throng,  the  cap-hunters 
bustled  to  and  fro,  proud  of  their  leader's  triumph, 
leaving,  as  it  were,  glorious  wakes  where  they  passed. 

In  front  of  the  house  of  the  Baobab,  were  two 
large  wheelbarrows.  From  time  to  time  the  door 
would  open,  and  allow  several  persons  to  be, seen 
gravely  walking  up  and  down  in  the  little  garden. 
Men  were  bringing  out  trunks,  boxes,  carpet-bags, 
and  piling  them  up  on  the  wheelbarrows. 

At  every  new  package  the  throng  trembled.  The 
articles  were  named  in  a  loud  voice :  — 

"There's  the  shelter-tent.  .  .  .  Those  are  the  pot- 
ted meats.  .  .  .  That 's  the  medicine-chest,  —  the  gun- 
cases  ;  "  and  the  cap-hunters  gave  explanations. 

All  of  a  sudden,  about  ten  o'clock,  there  was  a 
great  stir  in  the  multitude.  The  garden  gate  banged 
open. 

"  Here  he  is  !  ...  here  he  is ! "  they  shouted. 

It  was  he.  ... 

When  he  appeared  on  the  threshold,  two  outcries 
of  stupefaction  burst  from  the  assemblage-  — 


TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON  83 

"It's  a  Teur!" 

"  He  's  got  on  goggles !  " 

In  truth,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  had  deemed  it  his 
duty,  on  going  to  Algeria,  to  don  the  Algerian  cos- 
tume. Full  white  linen  trousers,  small  tight  jacket 
with  metal  buttons,  a  red  sash  two  feet  wide  around 
the  waist,  the  neck  bare  and  the  forehead  shaven, 
and  on  his  head  a  vast  red  fez,  or  Chechia,  with 
something  like  a  long  blue  tassel.  .  .  .  Together  with 
this,  two  heavy  guns,  one  on  each  shoulder,  a  broad 
hunting-knife  in  the  girdle,  a  bandolier  across  the 
breast,  a  revolver  on  the  hip,  swinging  in  its  leather 
case, —  that  is  all. 

No,  I  crave  your  pardon,  I  was  forgetting  the 
goggles, — an  enormous  pair  of  azure  goggles,  which 
came  in  appropriately  to  temper  what  was  rather  too 
fierce  in  our  hero's  appearance. 

"  Long  life  to  Tartarin  !  .  .  .  hurrah  for  Tartarin  ! " 
roared  the  populace. 

The  great  man  smiled,  but  did  not  salute,  on  ac- 
count of  the  firearms  hindering  him.  Moreover,  he 
knew  now  how  far  to  rely  on  popular  favor;  it  may 
be  that  in  the  depths  of  his  soul  he  even  cursed  his 
terrible  fellow-townsfolk,  who  obliged  him  to  go 
away  and  have  his  pretty  little  home  with  its  white 
walls  and  green  Venetians.  .  .  .  But  there  was  no 
show  of  this. 

Calm  and  proud,  although  a  little  pallid,  he  stepped 
out  on  the  sidewalk,  glanced  at  the  wheelbarrows, 
and,  seeing  all  was  right,  lustily  took  the  road  to 
the  railway-station,  without  even  once  looking  back 
toward  Baobab  Villa.  Behind  him  marched  the 


84  TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON 

gallant  Commandant  Bravida,  ex-quartermaster,  La- 
deveze  the  Chief  Judge,  then  Costecalde  the  gunsmith 
and  all  the  cap-hunters,  then  the  wheelbarrows,  then 
the  populace. 

Before  the  station  the  station-master  was  waiting 
for  him,  —  an  old  African  veteran  of  1830,  who  shook 
Tartarin's  hand  many  times  with  fervency. 

The  Paris-Marseilles  express  was  not  yet  in. 
Tartarin  and  his  staff  went  into  the  waiting-rooms. 
To  prevent  the  place  being  overrun,  the  station- 
master  ordered  the  gates  to  be  closed. 

During  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Tartarin  promenaded 
up  and  down  in  the  rooms  in  the  midst  of  his  brother 
marksmen.  He  spoke  to  them  of  his  journey  and 
his  hunting,  and  promised  to  send  them  skins. 
They  put  their  names  down  in  his  memorandum- 
book  for  a  lion-skin  apiece,  as  waltzers  book  for  a 
dance. 

Gentle  and  placid  as  Socrates  on  the  point  of 
quaffing  the  hemlock,  the  intrepid  Tarasconian  had 
a  word  for  each  and  a  smile  for  all.  He  spoke 
simply,  with  an  affable  mien ;  it  looked  as  if,  before 
departing,  he  meant  to  leave  behind  him  a  trail  of 
delight,  regrets,  and.  pleasant  memories.  On  hear- 
ing their  leader  speak  in  this  way,  all  the  cap-hunters 
had  tears  in  their  eyes ;  and  some  were  stung  with 
remorse,  as,  for  example,  Chief  Judge  Ladeveze  and 
the  apothecary  Bezuquet. 

The  railway  employe's  blubbered  in  the  corners. 
Outside  the  public  squinted  through  the  bars  and 
shouted:  "Long  live  Tartarin!" 

At  length  the  bell  rang.     A  dull  rumble  was  heard, 


TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON  85 

and   a   piercing   whistle   shook    the  vault :  .  .  .  All 
aboard  !     All  aboard ! 

"  Good-bye,  Tartarin  ! . . .  Good-bye,  Tartarin  ! . . .  " 
"  Good-bye  to  you  all !  ..."  murmured  the  great 
man ;  and  kissing  the  gallant  Commandant  Bravida 
on  the  cheeks,  he  kissed  his  dear  Tarascon. 

Then  he  leaped  out  on  the  platform,  and  clam- 
bered into  a  car  full  of  Parisian  ladies,  who  were 
ready  to  die  with  fright  at  sight  of  this  stranger  with 
so  many  pistols  and  rifles. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

The    Port  of  Marseilles  —  "AH  aboard, 
all  aboard!  " 


•sAHst^ssi '   V-   **$m~> 
Jfti%«  H  .  v, .' •'..  .**•  ;-:' ..;•  -;a  A  •-•, 


•<^?4? 


XIV 

7%<?  /Vr/  of  Marseilles  —  "  All  aboard,  all 
aboard!  " 

ON  the  ist  of  December,  186-,  at  noon,  in  clear, 
brilliant,  splendid  weather,  under  a  Provencal  winter's 
sun,  the  startled  inhabitants  of  Marseilles  beheld  a 
Teitr  come  down  the  Canebiere.  A  Te^^r,  a  regular 
Turk,  —  never  had  such  a  one  been  seen;  and  yet, 
Heaven  knows,  there  is  no  lack  of  Teurs  at 
Marseilles. 

The  Teur  in  question  —  have  I  any  necessity  of 
telling  you? — was  Tartarin,  the  great  Tartarin  of 
Tarascon,  who  marched  along  the  quays,  followed 
by  his  gun-cases,  medicine-chest,  and  canned  comes- 
tibles, on  his  way  to  the  landing-stage  of  the  Touache 
Company  and  the  mail  steamer  the  "  Zouave,"  which 
was  to  transport  him  over  the  sea. 

With  his  ears  still  ringing  with  Tarasconian  ap- 
plause, intoxicated  by  the  glare  of  the  heavens 
and  the  reek  of  the  sea,  Tartarin  fairly  beamed  as 

89 


90  TARTAR  IN  OF  TARASCON 

he  stepped  out  with  his  guns  on  his  shoulders,  his 
head  high,  looking  with  all  his  eyes  on  that  wondrous 
dazzling  harbor  of  Marseilles,  which  he  saw  for  the 
first  time.  .  .  .  The  poor  fellow  believed  he  was 
dreaming.  He  fancied  his  name  was  Sinbad  the 
Sailor,  and  that  he  was  roaming  in  one  of  those 
fantastic  cities  abundant  in  the  "  Arabian  Nights." 

As  far  as  eye  could  reach  there  was  a  forest  of 
masts  and  spars,  crossing  in  every  direction.  Flags 
of  all  countries,  Russian,  Swedish,  Greek,  Tunisian, 
American.  .  .  . 

The  vessels  with  their  decks  almost  on  a  level 
with  the  quay,  their  bowsprits  projecting  over  the 
strand  like  rows  of  bayonets.  Beneath  them  the 
mermaids,  goddesses,  madonnas,  and  other  carved 
and  painted  wooden  figure-heads  which  give  names 
to  ships  — •  all  worn  by  sea-water,  split,  dripping, 
mouldy.  .  .  .  Ever  and  anon,  between  the  hulls, 
a  patch  of  harbor  like  watered  silk  splashed  with 
oil.  .  .  .  Between  the  intertangled  yards  clouds  of 
sea-gulls,  prettily  spotting  the  blue  sky;  shipboys, 
hailing  one  another  in  all  languages. 

On  the  quay,  amid  rivulets,  green,  thick,  black, 
flowing  down  from  the  soap-factories  loaded  with 
oil  and  soda,  bustled  a  tribe  of  custom-house  officers, 
messengers,  porters,  and  truckmen  with  their  bogheys, 
drawn  by  small  Corsican  horses. 

Shops  for  strange  wares;  smoky  shanties  where 
sailors  were  cooking ;  dealers  in  pipes,  monkeys, 
parrots,  ropes,  sailcloth,  fanciful  curios,  amongst 
which  were  mingled  higgledy-piggledy  old  culverins, 
huge  gilded  lanterns,  old  tackle,  old  flukeless  anchors, 


TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON  91 

old  cordage,  old  pulleys,  old  speaking-trumpets,  and 
marine  glasses  of  the  time  of  Jean  Bart  and  Duguay- 
Trouin.  Women  with  cockles  and  mussels  for  sale 
squatted  beside  their  heaps  of  shellfish  and  yawped 
their  goods.  Seamen  rolled  by  with  tar-pots,  with 
smoking  saucepans,  with  big  baskets  full  of  cuttlefish, 
which  they  went  to  wash  in  the  whitish  water  of  the 
fountains. 

Everywhere  a  prodigious  collection  of  all  kinds  of 
merchandise :  silks,  minerals,  piles  of  wood,  pigs 
of  lead,  cloths,  sugars,  carob  beans,  rape-seed,  lico- 
rice, sugar-cane.  The  East  and  the  West  in  indis- 
criminate confusion.  Pyramids  of  Dutch  cheeses 
which  the  Genoese  women  were  staining  red  with 
their  hands. 

Yonder,  the  corn  market :  stevedores  discharging 
their  sacks  down  from  high  scaffoldings  on  the  pier. 
Loose  grain  rolling  like  a  golden  torrent  through 
a  blond  dust.  Men  in  red  skullcaps  sifting  it  as 
they  caught  it  in  large  asses'-skin  sieves,  and 
loading  it  on  carts  which  rolled  away,  followed  by 
a  regiment  of  women  and  youngsters  with  wisps  and 
gleaning-baskets. . . .  Farther  on,  the  careenage  dock; 
large  vessels  lying  on  their  sides  and  singed  with 
thorn-bushes  to  free  them  of  sea-weed ;  the  yards 
dipping  in  the  water,  the  smell  of  pitch,  the  deafening 
clatter  of  carpenters  sheathing  the  bottoms  with 
broad  sheets  of  copper. 

Here  and  there  a  gap  between  the  masts.  Then 
Tartarin  could  see  the  harbor  mouth,  with  the 
coming  and  going  of  vessels :  a  British  frigate  off 
for  Malta,  smart  and  thoroughly  washed  down,  the 


92  TAR  TAR  IN  OF   TARASCON 

officers  in  primrose  gloves,  or  a  large  Marseillaise 
brig  hauling  out  in  the  midst  of  uproar  and  oaths, 
and  on  the  poop  the  fat  captain,  in  a  high  silk  hat 
and  frock-coat,  ordering  the  operations  in  Provencal. 
Out-going  craft  running  before  the  wind  under  all 
sail.  Far  out  in  the  offing,  others  slowly  beating 
in  loomed  up  in  the  sunshine  as  if  they  were  sailing 
in  the  air. 

And  then  all  the  time  a  frightful  riot,"  the  rumbling 
of  carts,  the  "  Haul  all,  haul  away  !  "  of  the  shipmen, 
oaths,  songs,  steamboat  whistles,  the  bugles  and 
drums  in  Fort  Saint-Jean  and  Fort  Saint-Nicolas, 
the  bells  of  the  Major,  the  Accoules,  and  Saint 
Victor;  with  the  mistral  atop  of  all,  catching  up  all 
these  noises  and  this  clamor  and  rolling  them  up 
together,  shaking  them,  confounding  them  with  its 
own  voice,  and  making  a  mad,  wild,  heroic  music 
like  a  great  flourish  of  trumpets,  —  a  fanfare  for  a 
journey,  filling  you  with  a  longing  to  be  off,  to  go 
far  away,  to  have  wings. 

It  was  to  the  sound  of  this  splendid  blast  that 
the  intrepid  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  embarked  for  the 
land  of  lions.  . 


SECOND    EPISODE. 


AMONG    "THE    TEURS." 


CHAPTER  I 

The  passage  —  The  five  positions  of  the 
Chechia  —  The  third  evening  02it  —  Mercy  on 
us  ! 


I 


The  passage  —  The  five  positions  of  the  Chechia  — • 
The  third  evening  out  —  Mercy  on  us! 

WOULD  that  I  were  a  painter,  and  a  great  painter, 
my  dear  readers,  that  I  might  set  under  your  eyes, 
at  the  head  of  this  second  episode,  the  various  posi- 
tions taken  by  Tartarin's  Chechia  in  the  three  days' 
passage  it  made  on  board  of  the  "Zouave,"  between 
France  and  Algeria. 

I  would  first  show  it  to  you  at  the  hour  of  de- 
parture, on  deck,  arrogant  and  heroic  as  it  was, 
forming  an  aureole  round  that  handsome  Taras- 
conian  head.  Next  would  I  show  you  it  at  the 

Q7 


98 


TAR  TAR  IN  OF   TARASCOAr 


harbor-mouth,  when  the  "Zouave"  began  to  cara- 
cole on  the  waves;  I  would  depict  it  for  you  all 
of  a  quake  in  astonishment,  and  as  though  already 
experiencing  preliminary  qualms. 

Then,  in  the  Gulf  of  Lyons, 
as  they  came  nearer  to  the 
open  sea,  where  the  white 
caps  heaved  harder,  I  would 
make  you  behold  it  wrest- 
ling with  the  tempest,  stand- 
ing up  in  terror  on  the  hero's 
cranium,  with  its  mighty  mane 
of  blue  wool  bristling  out  in 
the  spray  and  the  squall.  .  .  . 

Fourth  position :  six  in  the  afternoon,  with  the 
Corsican  coast  in  view.  .  .  .  The  unfortunate  Chechia 
hangs  over  the  ship's  side,  and 
lamentably  stares  down  and 
sounds  the  sea.  .  .  .  Finally,  the 
fifth  and  last  position :  at  the 
back  of  a  narrow  state-room,  in 
a  box-bed  like  a  bureau  drawer, 
something  shapeless  and  dis- 
consolate, rolling  and  moaning 
on  the  pillow. 

This  is  the  Chechia,  the  Chechia  so  heroic  at  the  sail- 
ing, now  reduced  to  the  vulgar  condition  of  a  night- 
cap, and  pulled  down  over  the  very  ears  of  the  head 
of  a  pallid  and  convulsed  sufferer.  .  .  . 

Ah !  if  the  people  of  Tarascon  could  have  seen  their 
great  Tartarin  stretched  in  his  bureau  drawer  in  the 


TARTAR  IN  OF   TAR  A  SCON 


99 


dull,  wan  gleam  that  fell  through   the  dead-lights, 
amid  the  sickly  odor  of  cooking  and  wet  wood,  —  the 
heart-heaving  perfume  of  mail-boats  ;  if  they  had  but 
heard  him  gurgle  at  every  turn  of 
the  screw,  wail  for  tea  every  five 
minutes,  and  swear  at  the  steward 
in  a  childish  treble,  —  how  angry 
would    they    not    have   been    with 
themselves   for   having    compelled 
him  to  leave  home !  .  .  . 

On  my  word  of  honor  as  a  his- 
torian, the  poor  Teur  was  a  pitiable 
object ! 

Suddenly  overcome  by  nausea, 
the  hapless  victim  had  not  the  courage  to  undo  his 
Algerian  girdle,  or  lay  aside  his  armory ;  the  clumsy- 
handled  hunting-knife  hurt  his  ribs,  and  the  leather 
revolver-case  made  his  thigh 
raw.  To  finish  him  arose 
the  taunts  of  Sancho-Tar- 
tarin,  who  never  ceased  to 
groan  and  inveigh,— 

"  Imbecile,  there  !  .  .  .  I  told 
you  so!  ...  Ha!  you  were 
bound  to  go  to  Africa.  .  .  . 
Well,  there  's  Africa,  .  .  .  how  do  you  like  it?" 

The  crudest  part  of  it  was  that,  from  the  depths 
of  his  stateroom  and  his  moaning,  the  hapless  wretch 
could  hear  the  passengers  in  the  grand  saloon  laugh- 
ing, munching,  singing,  and  playing  cards.  On  board 
the  "Zouave"  the  company  was  as  jolly  as  it  was 
numerous.  Officers  going  back  to  join  their  regi- 


100  TARTARIN  OF   TARASCOX 

merits,  ladies  from  the  Marseilles  Alcazar,  strolling- 
players,  a  rich  Mussulman  returning  from  Mecca, 
and  a  very  jocular  Montenegrin  prince,  who  gave 
imitations  of  Ravel  and  Gil 
Pe"res.  .  .  .  Not  one  of  these 
people  were  sea-sick,  and  their 
time  was  passed  in  quaffing 
champagne  with  the  captain 
of  the  li  Zouave,"  a  good  fat 
native  of  Marseilles,  who  had 
a  wife  and  family  as  well  at 

Algiers  as  at  home,  and  who  answered  to  the  merry 
name  of  Barbassou. 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon  hated  this  pack  of  wretches ; 
their  mirthfulness  deepened  his  ails.  .  .  . 

At  length,  on  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day,  there 
was  such  an  extraordinary  disturbance  on  board  the 
vessel  that  our  hero  was  roused  out  of  his  long 
torpor.  The  ship's  bell  was  ringing;  seamen's  heavy 
boots  were  trampling  over  the  deck. 

"  Go  ahead  ! .  .  .  Back  her ! .  . .  "  barked  the  hoarse 
voice  of  Captain  Barbassou ;  and  then,  "  Stop  her  !  " 
An  abrupt  check  of  movement,  a  shock,  and  no 
more.  .  .  .  Nothing  except  the  silent  rocking  of  the 
boat  from  side  to  side  like  a  balloon  in  the  air.  .  .  . 
This  strange  stillness  alarmed  the  Tarasconian. 
"  Mercy  on  us,  we  are  going  down  !  ..."  he  yelled 
in  a  terrible  voice  ;  and,  recovering  his  strength  by 
magic,  he  bounded  out  of  his  berth,  and  rushed  on 
deck  with  his  arsenal. 


CHAFIER  II 
To  arms  !  to  anus  !  " 


II 


"  To  arms  !  to  arms  !  " 

THEY  were  not  foundering,  they  were  making 
port. 

The  "  Zouave  "  had  just  glided  into  the  roadstead, 
—  a  fine  roadstead  of  deep,  black  water,  but  silent, 
dull,  almost  deserted.  On  elevated  ground  ahead 
rose  Algiers,  the  White  City,  with  its  little  cream- 
colored  houses  huddled  together  and  pressing  down 
to  the  sea.  It  was  like  Meuclon  slope  with  a  laun- 
dress's washing  hung  out  to  dry.  Over  it  a  splendid 
sky  of  blue  satin,  oh  !  but  so  blue  !  .  .  . 

A  little  restored  from  his  fright,  the  illustrious 
Tartarin  gazed  on  the  landscape,  and  respectfully 
listened  to  the  Montenegrin  prince,  who  stood  by 

103 


IO4  TARTARIN  OF   TAR  A  SCON 

his  side  and  named  the  different  parts  of  the  town, 
the  Kasbah,  the  upper  town,  and  the  Bab-Azun 
Street.  Very  well  brought-up  was  this  Montenegrin 
prince;  moreover,  knowing  Algeria  thoroughly,  and 
speaking  Arabic  fluently.  Hence  Tartarin  thought 
of  cultivating  his  acquaintance.  .  .  . 

All  at  once,  along  the  bulwark  against  which  they 
were  leaning,  the  Tarasconian  perceived  a  row  of 
large  black  hands  clinging  to  it  from  over  the  side. 
Almost  instantly  a  negro's  woolly  head  shot  up 
before  him,  and,  before  he  had  time  to  open  his 
mouth,  the  deck  was  invaded  from  all  sides  by  a 
hundred  black  or  yellow  corsairs,  half-naked,  hid- 
eous, terrible. 

Tartarin  knew  who  these  pirates  were.  ...  It  was 
they,  that  is  to  say,  THEY,  the  celebrated  THEY 
whom  he  had  so  often  hunted  in  the  by-ways  of  Ta- 
rascon.  At  last  then  THEY  had  decided  to  come ! 

...  At  first  surprise  nailed  him  to  the  spot.  But 
when  he  saw  the  Corsairs  fall  on  the  luggage,  tear 
off  the  tarpaulin  covering,  and  actually  begin  the  pil- 
lage of  the  ship,  then  the  hero  awoke,  and,  whipping 
out  his  hunting-knife,  "  To  arms  !  to  arms  !  "  he 
roared  to  the  passengers  ;  and  away  he  flew,  the 
foremost  of  all,  on  the  buccaneers. 

"  Ques  aco  ?  What  is  it  ?  What 's  the  matter  with 
you?"  exclaimed  Captain  Barbassou,  coming  out  of 
the  'tweendecks. 

"Ah,  here  you  are,  captain!  .  .  .  Quick,  quick, 
arm  your  men  !  " 

"  Hi!  what  for,  boun  Diou  f  " 

"  Why,  can't  you  see  ?  " 


TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 


105 


"See  what?" 

"  There,  before  you,  the  pirates. 

Captain  Barbassou  stared  at 
him  in  bewilderment.  At  this 
juncture  a  tall  blackamoor  tore 
by  with  our  hero's  medicine- 
chest  on  his  back. 

"  You  wretch  !  .  .  .  just  wait 
for  me  ! "  yelled  the  Tarasco- 
nian ;  and  he  darted  in  pursuit, 
with  the  knife  uplifted. 

Barbassou  caught  him  on  the 
fly,  and  holding  him  back  by  his 
waist-sash,  — 

"  Now  don't  disturb  yourself  ! 
Tron  de  ler  /  .  .  .  they  're  hot 
pirates.  .  .  .  It 's  long  since  there 
were  any  pirates  hereabout.  .  .  . 
Those  are  porters." 

"  Porters  ?  .  .  .  " 

"  He* !  yes,  porters  after  the 
luggage  to  carry  it  ashore.  .  .  . 
So  put  up  your  cutlas,  give  me 
your  ticket,  and  walk  off  behind 
that  negro,  —  an  honest  lad,  who 
will  see  you  to  land,  and  even 
into  a  hotel  if  you  like."  .  .  . 

A  little  abashed,  Tartarin  handed  over  his  ticket, 
and,  falling  in  behind  the  negro,  clambered  down  by 
the  hanging-ladder  into  a  big  skiff  dancing  alongside. 
All  his  effects  were  already  there,  —  his  boxes,  trunks, 
gun-cases,  canned  provisions ;  as  they  loaded  up  the 


IO6  TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON 

boat,  there  was  no  need  to  wait  for  any  other  pas- 
sengers. The  negro  scrambled  upon  the  boxes,  and 
squatted  there  like  a  baboon,  with  his  hands  clutch- 
ing his  knees.  Another  negro  took  the  oars.  .  .  . 
Both  of  them  eyed  Tartarin,  and  laughed,  and  showed 
their  white  teeth. 

Standing  in  the  stern-sheets,  making  that  terrifying 
face  which  had  daunted  his  fellow-countrymen,  the 
great  Tarasconian  feverishly  fumbled  with  the  haft 
of  his  hunting-knife ;  for,  in  spite  of  what  Barbassou 
had  told  him,  he  was  only  half  at  ease  as  regarded 
the  intention  of  these  ebony-skinned  porters,  who  so 
little  resembled  the  honest  porters  of  Tarascon.  .  .  . 

Five  minutes  afterwards  the  skiff  reached  shore, 
and  Tartarin  set  foot  on  the  little  Barbary  wharf, 
where,  three  hundred  years  before,  a  Spanish  galley- 
slave  named  Miguel  Cervantes,  under  the  cane  of 
the  Algerian  taskmaster,  was  devising  a  sublime 
romance  which  was  to  bear  the  title  of  "  Don 
Quixote." 


CHAPTER  III 

Invocation  to  Cervantes —  The  disembar- 
kation —  Where  are  the  Teurs  ?  —  Not  a  Teur 
—  Disenchantment. 


Ill 

Invocation  to  Cervantes  —  The  disembarkation  — 
Where  are  the  Teurs?  —  Not  a  Teur  —  Disen- 
chantment. 

OH,  Miguel  Cervantes  Saavedra,  if  what  is 
asserted  be  true,  to  wit,  that  wherever  great  men 
have  dwelt  some  emanation  of  their  spirits  wanders 
and  hovers  in  the  air  until  the  end  of  ages,  then 
what  remained  of  your  essence  on  the  Barbary  coast 
must  have  quivered  with  glee  to  behold  the  landing 
of  Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  —  that  marvellous  type  of 
the  French  Southerner,  in  whom  were  embodied 
both  heroes  of  your  work,  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho 

Panza.  .  .  . 

109 


JIO  TART  ART  A7  OF  TAR  A  SCON 

The  air  was  sultry  that  day.  On  the  quays,  ablaze 
with  sunshine,  were  five  or  six  revenue  officers,  Alge- 
rians waiting  for  news  from  France,  squatting  Moors 
pulling  at  their  long  pipes,  Maltese  mariners  drag- 
ging large  nets,  in  the  meshes  of  which  thousands 
of  sardines  glittered  like  small  silver  coins. 

But  Tartarin  hardly  had  set  foot  on  shore  before 
the  quay  sprang  into  life  and  changed  its  aspect.  A 
horde  of  savages,  still  more  hideous  than  the  pirates 
on  the  steamer,  rose  between  the  stones  on  the 
strand  and  rushed  upon  the  new-comer.  Tall  Arabs 
nude  under  woollen  blankets,  little  Moors  in  tatters, 
negroes,  Tunisians,  Port  Mahonese,  M'zabites,  hotel 
servants  in  white  aprons,  all  yelling,  shouting,  clutch- 
ing his  clothes,  fighting  over  his  luggage,  one  carry- 
ing away  the  provender,  another  his  medicine-chest, 
and  pelting  him  in  one  fantastic  medley  with  the 
preposterous  names  of  hotels.  .  .  . 

Bewildered  by  all  this  tumult,  poor  Tartarin  wan- 
dered to  and  fro,  blustered,  swore,  and  stormed,  ran 
after  his  property,  and,  not  knowing  how  to  make 
these  barbarians  understand  him,  harangued  and 
addressed  them  in  French,  Provencal,  and  even  in 
Latin,  the  Latin  of  Pourceaugnac  :  il  Rosa,  the  rose  : 
bonus,  bona,  bonnm  !  "  —  all  that  he  knew.  . . .  Wasted 
labor.  No  one  heeded  him.  .  .  .  Happily,  a  little 
man  in  a  yellow-collared  tunic,  and  armed  with  a 
long  running-footman's  cane,  intervened  like  a  god 
in  Homer,  and  dispersed  the  whole  riff-raff  with 
cudgel-play.  He  was  a  policeman  of  the  Algerian 
capital.  Very  politely  he  induced  Tartarin  to  put 
up  at  the  Hotel  de  1'Europe,  and  confided  him  to 


TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON  III 

its  waiters,  who  carted  him  and  his  traps  thither  in 
several  brouettes. 

At  the  first  steps  which  he  took  in  Algiers,  Tar- 
tarin  of  Tarascon  opened  his  eyes  wide.  Beforehand 
he  had  pictured  it  as  an  Oriental,  fairy-like,  mytho- 
logical city,  —  something  between  Constantinople  and 
Zanzibar.  ...  It  was  nothing  but  Tarascon  over 
again.  .  .  .  Cafes,  restaurants,  wide  streets,  four- 
story  houses,  a  little  macadamized  square,  where 
the  infantry  band  was  playing  Offenbach  polkas, 
gentlemen  in  chairs,  drinking  beer  and  eating  sinnel 
cakes,  ladies,  a  few  lorettes,  and  then  soldiers  — 
more  soldiers  —  no  end  of  soldiers,  .  .  .  but  not  a 
Teur  .  .  .  only  himself!  .  .  . 

Hence  he  felt  a  little  abashed  about  crossing  the 
square.  Everybody  looked  at  him.  The  musicians 
stopped,  and  the  Offenbach  polka  halted  with  one 
foot  in  the  air. 

With  both  guns  on  his  shoulders,  the  revolver 
on  his  hip,  as  fierce  and  stately  as  Robinson  Crusoe, 
Tartarin  gravely  passed  through  all  these  groups; 
but  on  arriving  at  the  hotel  his  powers  failed  him. 
The  departure  from  Tarascon,  the  harbor  of  Mar- 
seilles, the  voyage,  the  Montenegrin  prince,  the 
corsairs,  —  everything  was  jumbled  in  wild  confusion 
in  his  mind.  .  .  .  They  had  to  help  him  up  into  a  room 
and  disarm  him  and  undress  him.  ...  At  first  they 
talked  of  sending  for  a  doctor;  but  hardly  was  his 
head  on  the  pillow  than  the  hero  set  to  snoring,  so 
loudly  and  so  heartily  that  the  landlord  judged  the 
succor  of  science  useless,  and  every  one  considerately 
withdrew. 


CHAFFER  IV 
The  first  lying  in  wait. 


IV 


The  Jirst  lying  in  wait. 

THREE  o'clock  was  striking  by  the  Government 
clock  when  Tartarin  awoke.  He  had  slept  all  the 
evening,  all  night,  all  the  morning,  and  even  a  good 
piece  of  the  afternoon.  We  must  acknowledge, 
though,  that  during  the  last  three  days  the  Chechia 
had  seen  pretty  rough  times  ! 

The  hero's  first  thought  on  opening  his  eyes  was, 
"  I  am  in  the  land  of  the  lions  !  "  And  —  why  not 
say  it?  —  at  the  idea  that  lions  were  nigh  hereabouts, 
within  a  couple  of  steps,  almost  at  hand's  reach,  and 
that  he  was  bound  to  have  a  tussle  with  them, 
brr!  ...  a  deadly  chill  struck  him,  and  he  dived 
intrepidly  under  the  bedclothes. 

"5 


Il6  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

But,  at  the  end  of  a  moment,  the  outward  gayety, 
the  blue  sky,  the  broad  sun  streaming  into  the  bed- 
chamber, a  nice  little  breakfast  which  he  ate  in  bed, 
his  window  wide  open  upon  the  sea,  the  whole 
flavored  with  an  excellent  bottle  of  Crescia  wine, — 
very  speedily  restored  him  his  former  pluckiness. 

"  Now  for  the  lion,  for  the  lion  !  "  he  exclaimed, 
throwing  off  the  clothes  and  briskly  dressing  himself. 

This  was  his  plan :  to  go  forth  from  the  city 
without  saying  a  word  to  a  soul,  plunge  into  the 
great  desert,  await  nightfall  to  ambush  himself,  and 
bang  away  at  the  first  lion  which  should  stalk  by;  ... 
then  return  to  breakfast  in  the  morning  at  the  hotel, 
receive  the  congratulations  of  the  natives,  and  hire 
a  cart  to  bring  in  the  quarry. 

So  he  hurriedly  armed  himself,  fastened  to  his 
back  the  shelter-tent,  the  centre  pole  of  which  pro- 
jected a  clear  foot  above  his  head,  and  descended  to 
the  street  as  stiff  as  a  stake.  Not  caring  to  ask  the 
way  of  any  one,  from  fear  of  letting  out  his  project,  he 
turned  square  to  the  right,  and  threaded  to  the  very 
end  the  Bab-Azun  arcades,  where,  as  he  passed, 
swarms  of  Algerian  Jews  watched  him  from  their 
corner  ambushes  like  so  many  spiders;  crossing  the 
Place  du  Thdatre,  he  entered  the  outer  ward,  and  at 
last  came  out  on  the  dusty  Mustapha  highway. 

On  this  road  was  a  quaint  conglomeration : 
omnibuses,  hackney-coaches,  corricolos,  army-service 
wagons,  huge  hay-carts  drawn  by  bullocks,  squads 
of  Chasseurs  d'Afrique,  droves  of  microscopic  asses, 
negro  women  selling  cakes,  trucks  of  Alsatian  emi- 
grants, spahis  in  scarlet  cloaks,  —  all  filing  by  in  a 


TARTARIN  OF  TAR  A  SCON  H/ 

whirlwind  cloud  of  dust,  amid  shouts,  songs,  and 
trumpet-calls,  between  two  rows  of  vile-looking 
booths,  at  the  doors  of  which  lanky  Port  Mali  on 
women  might  be  seen  doing  their  hair,  drinking, 
dens  filled  with  soldiers,  and  shops  of  butchers  and 
knackers.  .  .  . 

"  Now,  what  rubbish  have  I  heard  sung  about  the 
Orient !  "  said  the  great  Tartarin  to  himself  ;  "  there 
are  not  even  as  many  Tears  here  as  at  Marseilles." 

All  of  a  sudden  he  saw  a  superb  camel  passing  by 
him  quite  close  to  him,  stretching  its  long  legs  and 
puffing  out  its  throat  like  a  turkey-cock.  That  made 
his  heart  throb. 

Camels  already  !  Lions  could  not  be  far  off  now  ; 
and,  indeed,  within  five  minutes  he  saw  a  whole 
band  of  lion-hunters  coming  his  way  with  guns  on 
their  shoulders. 

"  Cowards  !"  thought  our  hero,  as  he  skirted  them  ; 
"cowards!  to  go  at  a  lion  in  companies  and  with 
dogs ! " 

For  it  would  never  have  occurred  to  him  that 
anything  but  lions  could  be  hunted  in  Algeria. 
Nevertheless,  these  huntsmen  wore  such  complacent 
faces,  like  retired  tradesmen,  and  then  this  style  of 
lion-hunting  witli  dogs  and  game-bags  was  so  patri- 
archal, that  the  Tarasconian,  a  little  perplexed, 
deemed  it  incumbent  to  question  one  of  the  gentle- 
men. 

"  Et  autrement .  .  .  comrade,  good  sport  ?  " 

"  Not  bad,"  responded  the  other,  regarding  the 
Tarasconian  warriors  imposing  equipment  with  a 
scared  eye. 


Il8  TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON 

"  Killed  any  ?  " 

"  Rather!  .  .  .  Not  so  bad  .  .  .  only  look." 

Whereupon  the  Algerian  sportsman  showed  his 
game-bag  stuffed  out  with  rabbits  and  woodcock. 

"What!  that?  your  bag?  .  .  .  You  put  those  in 
your  bag  ?  " 

"Where  else  should  I  put  'em?" 

"  But  then  ...  it 's  ...  it 's  such  little  game." 

"  Some  run  small,  and  some  run  large,"  observed 
the  hunter. 

And  as  he  was  in  haste  to  get  home,  he  rejoined 
his  companions  with  long  strides. 

The  dauntless  Tartarin  remained  rooted  in  the 
middle  of  the  road  with  stupefaction.  .  .  . 

Then,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  "  Pooh  ! "  he 
ejaculated,  "  these  are  jokers.  .  .  .  They  have  n't  killed 
anything  whatever  ; "  and  he  went  his  way. 

Already  the  houses  were  becoming  scarcer,  and 
also  the  passengers.  Night  was  coming  on  and 
objects  were  growing  blurred.  .  .  .  Tartarin  walked 
on  for  half  an  hour  more.  Then  he  stopped.  ...  It 
was  absolutely  night.  A  moonless  night,  too,  but 
sprinkled  with  stars.  On  the  highroad  there  was 
no  one.  ...  In  spite  of  everything  the  hero  concluded 
that  lions  are  not  stage-coaches,  and  would  not  of 
their  own  choice  travel  the  main  ways.  So  he  started 
across  country.  .  .  .  Everywhere  were  ditches  and 
brambles  and  bushes.  No  matter ;  he  still  kept 
on.  ... 

Then  suddenly  he  halted. 

"  I  smell  lions  about  here  ! "  said  our  friend,  and 
sniffed  to  right  and  to  left. 


CHAPTER  V 
Bang,  bang! 


V 


Bang,  bang  I 

IT  was  a  great  wilderness,  bristling  with  odd 
plants, — -with  those  Oriental  plants  which  look  like 
ugly  beasts.  Under  the  feeble  starlight  their  magni- 
fied shadows  barred  the  ground  in  every  direction. 
On  the  right  the  confused  and  heavy  mass  of  a 
mountain,  —  perhaps  the  Atlas  range  ! .  .  .  On  the  left, 
the  invisible  sea  tumbling  with  a  muffled  roar.  ,  , 
The  very  spot  to  attract  wild  beasts.  .  .  . 

With  one  gun  laid  before  him,  the  other  in  his 
grasp,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  went  down  on  one  knee 
and  waited.  .  .  .  He  waited  one  hour,  two  hours  .  .  . 
nothing!  .  .  .  Then  he  bethought  him  how,  in  his 
books,  the  great  lion-slayers  never  went  hunting 
without  taking  along  with  them  a  kid,  which  they 
tied  up  a  few  paces  before  them,  and  made  to  bleat 


122  TARTAR  IN  OF   TARASCON 

by  jerking  its  foot  with  a  string.  Not  having  any 
kid,  the  Tarasconian  had  the  idea  of  making  imita- 
tions, and  he  set  to  crying  in  a  tremulous  voice, — 

"Me!  Me  !  ..." 

At  first  very  softly,  because  in  the  bottom  of  his 
heart  he  was  a  little  afraid  lest  the  lion  should  hear 
him;  .  .  .  then,  when  he  saw  that  nothing  came,  he 
bleated  more  loudly:  "  Me  !  .  .  .  Me!  .  .  .  "  Still 
nothing !  .  .  .  Losing  patience,  he  tried  it  again  more 
vigorously  many  times  in  succession :  "  Me !  .  .  . 
Me !  .  .  .  Me !  .  .  .  "  with  so  much  power  that  the  kid 
began  to  seem  like  a  bull.  .  .  . 

Suddenly,  a  few  steps  in  front,  something  black  and 
gigantic  burst  upon  him.  He  held  his  breath.  .  .  . 
This  thing  lowered  its  head,  sniffed  the  ground, 
bounded  up,  rolled  over,  and  darted  off  at  a  gallop, 
then  came  back  and  stopped  short.  ...  It  was  the 
lion,  no  doubt !  .  .  .  now  he  could  plainly  see  its  four 
short  legs,  its  formidable  mane  and  two  eyes,  two  big 
eyes  gleaming  in  the  gloom.  .  .  . 

Aim  !  Fire  !  bang,  bang!  ...  it  was  done.  Then 
instantly  a  leap  to  the  goal  and  the  drawing  of  the 
hunting-knife. 

To  the  Tarasconian's  shot  a  terrible  roaring 
replied. 

"  I  hit  him  !  "  cried  our  good  Tartarin,  and,  steady- 
ing himself  on  his  sturdy  legs,  he  prepared  to  receive 
the  brute's  charge. 

But  it  had  more  than  its  fill,  and  galloped  off, 
howling.  .  .  .  Nevertheless  he  did  not  budge.  He 
was  waiting  for  the  lioness.  .  .  .  Still,  just  as  in  his 
books ! 


TARTAR  IN  OF  TARASCON  12$ 

Unhappily,  the  lioness  came  not.  After  two  or 
three  hours'  waiting  the  Tarasconian  grew  tired. 
The  ground  was  damp,  the  night  was  getting  cool, 
and  the  sea-breeze  was  keen. 

"  I  have  a  good  mind  to  take  a  nap  till  daylight," 
he  said  to  himself. 

To  avoid  catching  the  rheumatism,  he  had  recourse 
to  his  shelter-tent.  .  .  .  But  here  's  where  the  devil 
.nterfered !  This  tent  was  of  so  very  ingenious  a 
construction  that  he  could  not  manage  to  open  it. 

In  vain  for  an  hour  did  he  toil  over  it  and  sweat 
over  it,  —  the  confounded  tent  would  not  come  un- 
folded. .  .  .  There  are  some  umbrellas  which  amuse 
themselves  under  torrential  rains  in  playing  just  such 
tricks  on  you.  .  .  .  Fairly  tired  out  with  the  struggle, 
the  Tarasconian  dashed  the  machine  on  the  ground, 
and  lay  down  on  it,  swearing  like  the  true  Provencal 
that  he  was. 

"  Ta,  ta,  ra,  ta  .'  fa,  ra,  ta  !  " 

"  Ques  aco  ?  . . .  What 's  that  ?  "  wondered  Tartarin, 
suddenly  aroused. 

It  was  the  bugles  of  the  Chasseurs  d'Afrique 
sounding  the  reveille  in  the  Mustapha  barracks.  .  .  > 
The  stupefied  lion-slayer  rubbed  his  eyes.  .  .  .  He 
who  had  believed  himself  out  in  the  boundless 
desert!  .  .  .  Do  you  know  where  he  was?  ...  In  a 
field  of  artichokes,  between  a  cabbage-garden  and 
a  beet-patch. 

His  Sahara  grew  kitchen  vegetables.  .  .  . 

Quite  close  to  him,  on  the  pretty  verdant  slope  of 
Upper  Mustapha,  the  snowy  Algerian  villas  sparkled 
in  the  dew  of  the  dawn:  one  might  have  thought 


124  TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON 

oneself  in  the  neighborhood  of  Marseilles,. amongst 
its  bastides  and  bastidons. 

The  commonplace  and  kitchen-gardenish  aspect 
of  this  sleeping  landscape  much  astonished  the  poor 
man,  and  put  him  in  very  bad  humor. 

"These  folk  are  crazy,"  he  reasoned,  "to  plant 
artichokes  in  the  prowling-ground  of  lions;  .  .  .  for, 
surely,  I  have  not  been  dreaming.  .  .  .  Lions  come 
here.  .  .  .  There  's  the  proof.  ..." 

"The  proof"  was  blood-spots  which  the  beast  in 
its  flight  had  left  behind.  Bending  over  this  gory 
trail,  with  his  eye  on  the  lookout  and  his  revolver  in 
his  hand,  the  valiant  Tarasconian  went  from  arti- 
choke to  artichoke  down  to  a  little  field  of  oats.  .  .  . 
In  the  trampled  grass  was  a  pool  of  blood,  and  in 
the  midst  of  the  pool,  lying  on  its  flank,  with  a  large 
wound  in  the  head,  was  a  ...  guess  what  ? 

"A  lion,  of  course  !  " 

No !  An  ass !  —  one  of  those  little  asses  so  com- 
mon in  Algeria,  where  they  are  called  bourriquots. 


CHAPTER  VI 

Arrival  of  the  female  —  A  terrible  combat 
-  "Le  rendezvous  des  Lapins  !  " 


VI 


Arrival  of  the  female  —  A  terribu  combat  — 
'•  Le  rendezvous  des  Lapins  !  " 

TARTARIN'S  first  impulse  when  he  caught  sight  of 
his  hapless  victim  was  one  of  vexation.  There  is 
such  a  wide  gap  between  a  lion  and  a  bourriquot! . .  . 
His  second  impulse  was  one  of  pity.  The  poor 
bourriquot  was  so  pretty,  and  looked  so  gentle.  The 
hide  on  his  still  warm  sides  heaved  and  fell  like 
waves.  Tartarin  knelt  down,  and  strove  with  the 
end  of  his  Algerian  sash  to  stanch  the  blood  of  the 
wretched  beast;  and  this  great  man  tending  this 
little  ass  was  all  you  can  imagine  most  touching. 

127 


128  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

At  the  touch  of  the  silky  cloth  the  bourriquot,  who 
had  not  twopennyworth  of  life  in  him,  opened  his 
large  gray  eye  and  moved  his  long  ears  two  or  three 
times,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Thank  you !  .  .  .  thank 
you !  .  .  .  "  Then  a  final  spasm  shook  it  from  head 
to  tail,  and  it  stirred  no  more. 

"  Noiraud !  Noiraud  !  "  suddenly  screamed  a  voice, 
choking  with  anguish.  At  the  same  time  the  branches 
in  a  thicket  hard  by  stirred.  .  .  . 

Tartarin  had  no  more  than  enough  time  to  rise 
and  stand  on  guard.  .  .  .  This  was  the  female! 

She  rushed  up,  terrible  and  bellowing,  under  form 
of  an  old  Alsatian  woman,  her  hair  in  a  kerchief, 
armed  with  a  large  red  umbrella,  and  calling  for  her 
ass,  till  all  the  echoes  of  Mustapha  rang.  It  certainly 
would  have  been  better  for  Tartarin  to  have  had  to 
deal  with  a  lioness  in  fury  than  this  old  virago.  .  .  . 
In  vain  did  the  luckless  sportsman  try  to  make 
her  understand  how  the  thing  had  occurred ;  that 
he  had  mistaken  Noiraud  for  a  lion.  .  .  .  The  old 
woman  believed  that  he  was  making  fun  of  her, 
and,  uttering  energetic  "  Der  Teifels ! "  fell  on  the 
hero  with  blows  of  her  umbrella.  Tartarin,  a  lit- 
tle bewildered,  defended  himself  as  best  he  could, 
and  warded  off  the  blows  with  his  rifle ;  he  per- 
spired, he  panted,  he  jumped  about,  and  kept  crying 
out,  — 

"  But,  Madame  .  .  .  but,  Madame  ..." 

Mind  your  own  affairs  !  Madame  was  deaf,  as 
was  shown  by  her  undiminished  energy! 

Fortunately  a  third  party  arrived  on  the  battle- 
field. This  was  the  Alsatian  woman's  husband, 


TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON  1 29 

himself  an  Alsatian,  a  roadside  innkeeper,  —  more- 
over a  very  good  ready-reckoner.  When  he  saw 
what  kind  of  a  customer  he  had  to  deal  with,  —  and 
that  the  assassin  only  wanted  to  pay  the  value  of  his 
victim,  — he  disarmed  his  better  half,  and  they  came 
to  an  understanding. 

Tartarin  gave  two  hundred  francs;  the  ass  was 
worth  about  ten !  That  is  the  current  price  of 
bourriqiiots  in  the  Arab  markets.  Then  poor  Noi- 
raud  was  laid  to  rest  at  the  root  of  a  fig-tree,  and 
the  Alsatian,  raised  to  joviality  by  the  color  of  the 
Tarascon  duros,  invited  the  hero  to  have  a  bite  with 
him  in  his  tavern,  which  stood  only  a  few  steps  off 
on  the  edge  of  the  highway. 

Every  Sunday  the  sportsmen  from  the  city  came 
there  to  breakfast;  for  the  plain  abounded  in  game, 
and  there  was  no  better  place  for  rabbits  for  two 
leagues  around. 

"  How  about  lions  ?  "  inquired  Tartarin. 

The  Alsatian  stared  at  him,  greatly  astounded. 

"  Lions  ! " 

"Yes,  .  .  .  lions.  .  .  .  Don't  you  see  them  some- 
times?" resumed  the  poor  fellow,  with  less  confi- 
dence. 

The  innkeeper  burst  out  in  laughter:  — 

"  Ah  !  ben  !  bless  us  !  ...  lions  !  .  .  .  What  should 
we  do  with  lions  here  ?  " 

"  Why,  are  n't  there  any  in  Algeria?" 

"  Faith !  I  never  saw  any.  .  .  .  And  yet  I  have  been 
twenty  years  in  the  colony.  Still,  I  believe  I  have 
heard  tell  ...  it  seems  to  me  the  newspapers  .  .  . 


130  TARTARIN  OF  TAR  AS  CON 

But   that   is   ever  so   much  farther  inland  • —  down 
South  ..." 

At  this  point  they  reached  the  tavern,  a  suburban 
tavern  such  as  you  see  at  Vanves  or  Pantin,  with  a 
withered  green  bough  over  the  door,  crossed  billiard- 
cues  painted  on  the  wall,  and  this  harmless  sign :  — 

AU  RENDEZ-VOUS  DES  LA  PINS 

The  meeting-place  for  Laptns, —  buck-rabbits,  game 
fellows  !  Oh  !  Bravida,  what  a  memory ! 


CHAPTER  VII 

History  of  an  omnibus,  a  Moorish  beauty, 
and  a  wreath  of  jasmine  flowers. 


VII 

History  of  an  omnibus,  a  Moorish  beauty,  and  a 
wreath  of  jasmine  flowers. 

THIS  first  adventure  would  have  had  something 
discouraging  for  many  people  ;  but  men  of  Tartarin's 
stamp  are  not  easily  cast  down. 

"The  lions  are  in  the  South,  are  they?"  mused 
the  hero.  "  Very  well.  South  I  go." 

As  soon  as  he  had  swallowed  his  last  mouthful,  he 
lumped  up,  thanked  his  host,  kissed  the  old  woman 
without  any  ill-will,  dropped  a  final  tear  over  the 
hapless  Noiraud,  and  quickly  returned  to  Algiers, 
with  the  firm  intention  of  packing  up  and  starting 
that  very  day  for  the  South. 

133 


134  TARTAR  IN  OF  TARASCON 

Unfortunately,  the  Mustapha  highroad  seemed  to 
have  stretched  since  over-night;  what  a  hot  sun! 
what  dust!  what  a  weight  in  that  shelter-tent!  .  .  . 
Tartarin  felt  no  courage  to  walk  to  town,  and  he 
beckoned  to  the  first  omnibus  coming  along,  and 
climbed  in.  .  .  . 

Oh,  poor  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  !  how  much  better 
it  would  have  been  for  his  name  and  fame  not  to 
have  stepped  into  that  fatal  ark  on  wheels,  but  to 
have  continued  on  his  road  afoot,  at  the  risk  of  falling 
suffocated  beneath  the  burden  of  the  atmosphere, 
the  tent,  and  his  heavy  double-barrelled  rifles !  .  .  . 

When  Tartarin  got  in,  the  'bus  was  full.  At  the 
end,  with  his  nose  in  his  prayer-book,  an  Algerian 
vicar  with  a  long  black  beard.  Facing  him,  a  young 
Moorish  merchant  smoking  coarse  cigarettes.  Then, 
a  Maltese  sailor  and  four  or  five  Moorish  women 
muffled  up  in  white  cloths,  so  that  only  their  eyes 
could  be  seen.  These  ladies  had  been  to  offer  up 
prayers  in  the  Abd-el-Kader  cemetery;  but  this 
funereal  visit  did  not  seem  to  have  saddened  them, 
for  they  could  be  heard  chuckling  and  jabbering 
together  under  their  coverings  while  munching 
pastry. 

Tartarin  fancied  that  they  watched  him  narrowly. 
One  in  particular,  seated  over  against  him,  had  fixed 
her  eyes  on  his,  and  never  took  them  off  all  the 
way.  Although  the  dame  was  veiled,  the  liveliness 
of  the  big  black  eyes,  lengthened  out  by  K'hol;  a 
deliciously  slender  wrist  loaded  with  gold  bracelets, 
of  which  a  glimpse  was  given  from  time  to  time 
among  the  folds  ;  the  sound  of  her  voice,  the  grace- 


TARTARIN  OF   TAR  A  SCON  135 

ful,  almost  childlike,  movements  of  the  head,  all 
hinted  at  something  young,  pretty,  adorable.  .  .  .  The 
unfortunate  Tartarin  did  not  know  where  to  hide. 
The  fond,  mute  gaze  of  those  splendrous  Oriental 
eyes  agitated  him,  perturbed  him,  and  made  him  feel 
like  dying;  he  was  hot,  he  was  cold.  .  .  . 

To  finish  him,  the  lady's  slipper  took  part :  he  felt 
it  run,  —  that  dainty  slipper,  —  run  and  frisk  about 

over  his  heavy  hunting-boots  like  a  tiny  red  mouse 

What  could  he  do?  Answer  the  glance  and  the  pres- 
sure !  Ay,  but  the  consequences  ?  A  love  affair  in 
the  East  is  a  terrible  matter !  .  .  .  And  with  his  roman 
tic  Southern  imagination,  the  honest  Tarasconian  saw 
himself  already  falling  into  the  grip  of  the  eunuchs, 
to  be  decapitated,  or,  better  perhaps  than  that,  sewn 
up  in  a  leather  sack  and  sunk  in  the  sea  with  his 
head  under  his  arm  beside  him.  This  somewhat 
cooled  him.  ...  In  the  mean  time  the  little  slipper 
continued  its  proceedings,  and  the  eyes,  widely  open 
opposite  him  like  twin  black  velvet  flowers,  seemed 
to  say,  — 

"  Come,  cull  us  !  " 

The  'bus  stopped.  They  were  on  the  Place  du 
Theatre,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Rue  Bab-Azun.  One 
by  one,  entangled  in  their  voluminous  trousers,  and 
drawing  their  veils  around  them  with  wild  grace, 
the  Moorish  women  alighted.  The  one  opposite 
Tartarin  was  the  last  to  rise,  and  in  rising  her  coun- 
tenance came  so  close  to  our  hero's  that  her  breath 
enveloped  him,  —  a  veritable  nosegay  of  youth,  of 
jasmine,  musk,  and  pastry. 

The  Tarasconian  no  longer  resisted.     Intoxicated 


136  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

with  love,  and  ready  for  anything,  he  darted  out 
after  the  beauty.  ...  At  the  sound  of  his  straps  and 
boots  she  turned,  laid  a  finger  on  her  veiled  mouth, 
as  if  to  say,  "  Hush  ! "  and  with  the  other  hand 
quickly  tossed  him  a  little  sweet-scented  chaplet  made 
of  jasmine  flowers.  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  stooped  to 
pick  it  up  ;  but  as  our  hero  was  somewhat  clumsy, 
and  much  overburdened  with  implements  of  war, 
the  operation  took  rather  long.  .  .  . 

When  he  did  straighten  up,  with  the  jasmine 
garland  on  his  heart,  the  Moorish  beauty  had 
vanished. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


Lions  of  tlic  Atlas,  sleep  ! 


VIII 

Lions  of  the  Atlas,  sleep  ! 

LIONS  of  the  Atlas,  sleep !  Sleep  tranquilly  in 
the  depths  of  your  lairs  amid  the  aloes  and  wild 
cacti.  .  .  .  For  a  few  days  longer  Tartarin  of  Tarascon 
will  not  massacre  you.  For  the  time  being,  all  his 
warlike  paraphernalia,  gun-cases,  medicine-chest, 
shelter-tent,  alimentary  preserves,  are  peacefully 
reposing  in  their  wrappers  in  a  corner  of  room  36, 
Hotel  de  1'Europe. 

Sleep  without  fear,  great  tawny  lions  !  The  Taras- 
conian  is  engaged  in  looking  up  his  Moorish  charmer. 

139 


140  TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON 

Since  his  adventure  in  the  omnibus,  the  unfortunate 
perpetually  fancies  that  he  feels  the  scampering  of 
that  tiny  red  mouse  on  his  foot,  his  huge  trapper's 
foot;  and  the  sea-breeze  fanning  his  lips  is  ever 
scented,  in  spite  of  all  that  he  can  do,  with  a  love- 
exciting  odor  of  pastry  and  anise. 

He  wants  his  Maugrabine  ! 

But  it  is  no  easy  task.  In  a  city  of  a  hundred 
thousand  souls,  to  find  one  certain  person,  whom 
one  knows  only  by  the  breath,  the  slippers,  and  the 
color  of  her  eyes,  —  none  but  a  Tarasconian  stung 
by  love  would  be  capable  of  attempting  such  an 
adventure. 

The  plague  of  it  is  that,  under  their  broad  white 
mufflers,  all  the  Moorish  women  look  alike;  besides, 
these  ladies  do  not  go  about  much,  and  to  see  them 
a  man  has  to  climb  up  into  the  upper  town,  —  the 
native  city,  the  city  of  the  Teurs. 

A  regular  cut-throat  place,  this  upper  town.  Little 
black  alleys,  very  narrow,  climbing  perpendicularly 
up  between  mysterious  house-walls,  the  roofs  of 
which  almost  touch  and  form  a  tunnel.  Low  doors ; 
sad,  silent  little  casements  well  barred  and  grated. 
And  then,  on  both  hands,  a  mass  of  very  dark 
stalls,  wherein  ferocious,  piratical-looking  Teurs, 
with  white  eyes  and  glittering  teeth,  are  smoking 
long  pipes,  and  whispering  together  as  if  hatching 
wicked  attacks.  .  .  . 

To  say  that  Tartarin  traversed  this  grisly  place 
without  emotion  would  be  telling  a  lie.  On  the 
contrary,  he  was  much  affected,  and  along  these 
obscure  alleys,  where  his  protuberant  stomach  took 


TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON  14! 

up  all  the  width,  the  worthy  fellow  advanced  only 
with  the  utmost  precaution,  his  eye  alert,  his  finger 
on  the  trigger  of  a  revolver.  Just  as  at  Tarascon 
when  he  went  to  the  clubhouse !  At  any  moment 
he  expected  to  have  an  onslaught  of  eunuchs  and 
janissaries  drop  down  at  his  back,  yet  the  longing  to 
behold  his  lady  again  gave  him  a  giant's  strength 
and  boldness. 

For  a  full  week  the  undaunted  Tartarin  never 
quitted  the  high  town.  Sometimes  he  was  seen 
cooling  his  heels  before  the  Moorish  bath-houses, 
awaiting  the  hour  when  the  ladies  came  forth  in 
troops,  shivering  and  still  redolent  of  soap  and  hot 
water;  sometimes  he  was  seen  at  the  doorway  of 
some  mosque,  stooping  over,  puffing,  and  melting  in 
his  efforts  to  get  out  of  his  big  boots  in  order  to 
enter  the  sanctuary.  .  .  . 

Sometimes  at  nightfall,  when  he  was  returning 
heart-broken  at  not  having  discovered  anything  at 
either  bagnio  or  mosque,  the  Tarasconian,  in  passing 
Moorish  mansions,  would  hear  monotonous  songs, 
the  smothered  twanging  of  guitars,  the  thumping 
of  tambourines,  and  feminine  laughter-peals,  which 
would  make  his  heart  beat. 

"  Perhaps  she  is  there ! "  he  would  say  to  himself. 

Then,  if  the  street  was  empty,  he  would  go  up  to 
one  of  these  dwellings,  lift  the  heavy  knocker  of  the 
low  postern,  and  timidly  rap.  .  .  .  The  songs  and 
merriment  would  instantly  cease.  Behind  the  wall 
nothing  would  be  audible  excepting  little  indefinite 
flutterings  as  in  a  slumbering  pigeon-house. 


142  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

"  Let 's  stick  to  it,"  the  hero  would  think.  .  .  . 
"  Something  will  befall  me  yet." 

What  most  often  befell  him  was  the  contents  of 
the  cold-water 'jug  on  his  head,  or  else  peel  of 
oranges  and  Barbary  figs.  .  .  .  Never  anything  more 
serious. 

Lions  of  the  Atlas,  sleep ! 


CHAPTER  IX 
Prince  Gregory  of  Montenegro, 


IX 


Prince  Gregory  of  Montenegro. 

FOR  two  long  weeks  the  unfortunate  Tartarin  had 
been  seeking  his  Algerian  lady,  and  most  likely  he 
would  be  seeking  after  her  to  this  day  if  the  Provi- 
dence of  lovers  had  not  come  to  his  aid  in  the  shape 
of  a  Montenegrin  nobleman. 

It  happened  as  follows. 

Every  Saturday  night  in  winter  there  is  a  masked 
ball  at  the  Grand  Theatre  of  Algiers,  just  as  at  the 
Paris  Opera-House.  It  is  the  eternal  and  insipid 
provincial  bal  masque !  Few  people  on  the  floor, 
several  waifs  from  Bullier's x  or  the  Casino,  wild 

1  The  students'  ball  at  Bullier's  will  soon  be  a  thing  of  the 
past.     The  establishment  which  took  the  place  of  the  "  Closerie 
au  Silas  "  as  a  resort  of  the  Quartier  Latin,  though  frequented 
ro  145 


146  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

maidens  following  the  army,  faded  veterans,  routed 
porters,  and  five  or  six  little  Port  Mahon  laundresses 
aiming  high,  but  still  preserving  a  faint  perfume  of 
the  garlic  and  saffron  sauce  of  their  virtuous  days. 
.  .  .  The  real  spectacle  is  not  there,  but  in  the 
foyer,  transformed  for  the  nonce  into  a  gaming- 
saloon.  .  .  . 

A  feverish  and  motley  mob  hustle  one  another 
around  the  long  green  table-covers  :  Turcos  on  parole 
and  staking  the  fat  sous  of  their  advance  pay,  Moor- 
ish traders  from  the  upper  town,  negroes,  Maltese, 
colonists  from  the  inland,  who  have  come  forty  miles 
in  order  to  risk  on  an  ace  the  price  of  a  plough  or  of 
a  yoke  of  oxen,  ...  all  quivering,  pale,  clenching 
their  teeth,  and  with  that  singular,  anxious,  sidelong 
look  of  the  gamester,  become  a  squint  from  always 
staring  at  the  same  card. 

A  little  apart  are  the  tribes  of  Algerian  Jews, 
gambling  en  famille.  The  men  are  in  the  Oriental 
costume,  hideously  embellished  with  blue  stockings 
and  velvet  caps.  The  women,  puffy  and  wan,  sit  up 
stiffly  in  tight  golden  bodices.  .  .  .  Grouped  around 
the  tables,  the  whole  tribe  are  squealing,  laying 
their  heads  together,  reckoning  on  the  fingers,  and 
risking  but  little.  Now  and  anon,  however,  after  long 
conferences,  some  old  patriarch,  with  a  beard  such 
as  the  Father  Eternal  wears  in  pictures,  detaches 
himself  from  the  party  and  goes  to  risk  the  family 
duro.  ...  As  long  as  the  game  lasts,  there  is  a 
scintillation  of  Hebraic  eyes  directed  on  the  board,  — 

by  a  lower  class,  was  one  of  the  sights  which  foreigners  visiting 
Paris  felt  morally  called  upon  to  enjoy. 


TARTARIN  OF   TARASCOtV  147 

dreadful  black  diamond-like  eyes,  making  the  gold 
pieces  shiver,  and  at  last  gently  attracting  them,  as 
if  by  a  thread.  .  .  . 

Then  wrangles,  quarrels,  battles,  oaths  of  every 
land,  mad  outcries  in  all  tongues,  knives  flashing 
out,  the  guard  marching  in,  and  the  money  dis- 
appearing. .  .  . 

Into  the  thick  of  these  saturnalia  the  great  Tar- 
tarin  came  straying  one  evening  to  find  oblivion  and 
heart's  ease. 

The  hero  was  roving  alone  through  the  gathering, 
thinking  of  his  Moorish  beauty,  when  two  angered 
voices  arose  suddenly  from  a  gaming-table  above  all 
the  clamor  and  chink  of  coin. 

"  I  tell  you,  M'sieu,  that  I  am  twenty  francs 
short !  " 

"M'sieu!" 

"Well,  then  .  .  .  M'sieu!" 

"  You  shall  learn  whom  you  are  addressing, 
M'sieu!" 

"  I  ask  nothing  better,  M'sieu  !  " 

"  I  am  Prince  Gregory  of  Montenegro,  M'sieu.  ..." 

On  hearing  this  name,  Tartarin,  much  excited, 
pushed  his  way  through  the  throng,  and  placed  him- 
self in  the  foremost  ra.nk,  proud  and  happy  to  find 
his  prince  again,  his  polite  Montenegrin  prince, 
whose  acquaintance  he  had  begun  on  board  of  the 
mail-steamer.  .  .  . 

Unfortunately  the  title  of  Highness,  which  had  so 
dazzled  the  worthy  Tarasconian,  did  not  produce  the 
slightest  impression  upon  the  Chasseurs  officer  with 
whom  the  prince  was  having  his  dispute. 


148  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCOK 

"  I  am  much  the  wiser !  "  observed  the  military 
gentleman,  sneeringly ;  and  turning  to  the  by- 
standers, he  added  :  " '  Prince  Gregory  of  Monte- 
negro,' —  who  knows  any  such  person  ?  .  .  .  No 
one !  " 

The  indignant  Tartarin  took  one  step  forward. 

" Allow  me.  I  know  the  preince"  said  he,  in  a 
very  firm  voice,  and  with  his  finest  Tarasconian 
accent. 

The  Chasseurs  officer  eyed  him  hard  for  a  moment ; 
then,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  returned,  — 

"  Come,  that  is  good  !  .  .  .  Just  you  two  share 
between  you  the  twenty  francs  lacking,  and  let  us 
talk  no  more  about  it." 

Whereupon  he  turned  his  back  upon  them  and 
mixed  with  the  crowd. 

The  stormy  Tartarin  was  going  to  rush  after  him, 
but  the  prince  prevented  that. 

"  Let  him  go.  ...  I  can  manage  my  own  affairs." 

And  taking  the  Tarasconian  by  the  arm,  he  drew 
him  rapidly  out  of  doors. 

When  they  were  on  the  square,  Prince  Gregory 
of  Montenegro  took  off  his  hat,  gave  his  hand  to 
our  hero;  and  as  he  but  dimly  remembered  his  name, 
he  began  in  a  vibrating  voice, — 

"  Monsieur  Barbarin  ..." 

"  Tartarin  !  "  prompted  the  other,  timidly. 

"Tartarin,  Barbarin,  no  matter!  .  .  .  Between  us 
henceforward  it  is  a  league  of  life  and  death  !  " 

And  the  Montenegrin  noble  shook  his  hand  with 
fierce  energy. . . .  You  may  infer  that  the  Tarasconian 
was  proud. 


TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON  149 

"  Preince,  preince !  ..."  he  repeated  enthusiasti- 
cally. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  the  two  gentlemen  were 
installed  in  the  Restaurant  des  Platanes,  an  agree- 
able late  supper-house,  with  terraces  running  out 
over  the  sea,  and  there,  before  a  hearty  Russian 
salad,  seconded  by  a  nice  Crescia  wine,  they  renewed 
their  friendship. 

You  can  not  imagine  any  one  more  bewitching 
than  this  Montenegrin  prince.  Slender,  fine,  with 
crisp  hair  curled  by  the  tongs,  shaved  and  as  it  were 
pumice-stoned,  bestarred  with  strange  decorations, 
he  had  a  wily  eye,  cajoling  gestures,  and  a  vaguely 
Italian  accent,  which  gave  him  a  spurious  resem- 
blance to  Cardinal  Mazarin  without  his  mustaches. 
He  was  deeply  versed  in  the  Latin  tongues,  and 
lugged  in  quotations  from  Tacitus,  Horace,  and 
Caesar's  Commentaries  at  every  opening. 

Of  an  old  noble  strain,  it  appeared  that  his 
brothers  had  had  him  exiled  at  the  age  of  ten,  on 
account  of  his  liberal  opinions,  and  since  then  he 
had  roamed  the  world  for  instruction  and  pleasure,  — 
a  genuine  philosophical  prince !  .  .  .  A  singular  coin- 
cidence !  the  prince  had  spent  three  years  in  Taras- 
con ;  and  as  Tartarin  showed  amazement  at  never 
having  met  him  at  the  club  or  on  the  Esplanade,  his 
Highness  evasively  remarked  that  he  went  out  very 
little.  Through  delicacy,  the  Tarasconian  did  not 
dare  to  question  further.  All  great  existences  have 
such  mysterious  nooks !  .  .  . 

All  in  all,  this  Seigneur  Gregory  was  a  very  genial 
prince.  While  sipping  the  roseate  wine  of  Crescia, 


I5O  TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON 

he  patiently  listened  to  Tartarin  expatiating  on  his 
Moorish  beauty,  and  he  even  promised  to  find  her 
speedily,  as  he  knew  all  these  ladies. 

They  drank  hard  and  long.  They  toasted  "The 
ladies  of  Algiers "  and  "  The  freedom  of  Monte- 
negro ! " 

Outside,  under  the  terrace,  heaved  the  sea,  and  its 
rollers  slapped  the  strand  in  the  darkness  with  a 
noise  like  wet  sheets  flapping.  The  air  was  warm, 
the  sky  full  of  stars. 

In  the  plane-trees  a  nightingale  was  piping.  .  .  . 

Tartarin  paid  the  piper. 


CHAPTER  X 


"TV//  me  your  fathers  name,  and  I  will 
tell  you  the  name  of  this  flower." 


"  Tell  me  your  father1  s  name,  and  I  will  tell  you 
the  name  of  tliis  flower" 

MONTENEGRIN  princes  are  the  ones  to  start  up 
the  quail. 

Early  in  the  morning  following  this  evening  at  the 
Platanes,  Prince  Gregory  was  in  the  Tarasconian's 
bedroom. 

"  Quick  !  Quick  !  Dress  yourself ! . . .  Your  Moor- 
ish beauty  is  found.  .  .  .  Her  name  is  Ba'ia.  She  's 
twenty,  —  as  pretty  as  a  picture,  and  already  a 
widow.  ..." 

"  A  widow  ! .  .  .  What  luck  !  "  joyfully  exclaimed  the 
worthy  Tartarin,  who  dreaded  Oriental  husbands. 

"  Yes,  but  closely  guarded  by  her  brother." 

"  Oh,  the  deuce  !  " 

"  A  savage  Moor  who  sells  pipes  in  the  Orleans 
bazaar." 

Here  a  silence. 

153 


154  TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON 

"  Good  !  "  proceeded  the  prince  ;  "  you  are  not 
the  man  to  be  daunted  by  such  a  trifle  ;  and  ther 
perhaps  you  can  pacify  this  old  corsair  by  buying 
some  pipes  of  him.  .  .  .  Come,  quick !  On  with 
your  clothes,  .  .  .  you  lucky  dog  !  " 

Pale  and  agitated,  with  his  heart  brimming  ovei 
with  love,  the  Tarasconian  leaped  out  of  bed,  anc 
hastily  buttoned  up  his  capacious  flannel  drawers 

"  What  must  I  do  ?  " 

•'  Simply  write  to  the  lady  and  ask  for  a  rendezvous.' 

"  Why,  does  she  know  French  ? "  replied  the  simple 
hearted  Tartarin,  disappointed,  for  he  had  dreamec 
of  the  unadulterated  Orient. 

"  She  does  not  know  one  word  of  it,"  rejoined  th( 
prince,  imperturbably,  .  .  .  "but  you  can  dictate  youi 
letter,  and  I  will  translate  it  word  for  word." 

"  Oh,  prince,  how  kind  you  are  !  " 

And  the  Tarasconian  began  striding  up  and  dowr 
the  bedroom  in  silent  meditation. 

You  realize  a  man  does  not  write  to  a  Moorish  gir 
in  Algiers  in  the  same  way  as  to  a  seamstress  oi 
Beaucaire.  Very  luckily  our  hero  had  in  mind  hh 
numerous  readings,  which  allowed  him,  by  amalga 
mating  the  Apache  eloquence  of  Gustave  Aimard'i 
Red  Indians  with  Lamartine's  "  Voyage  en  Orient,' 
and  some  vague  reminiscences  of  the  "  Song  oJ 
Songs,"  to  compose  the  most  Eastern  letter  imagi 
nable.  It  opened  with,  — 

"  Like  the  ostrich  in  the  sandy  waste  "  - 
and  concluded  with,  — 

"  Tell  me  your  father's  name,  and  1  will  tell  you 
the  name  of  this  flower.'1'' 


TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON 


155 


To  this  missive  the  romantic  Tartarin  would  have 
much  liked  to  join  a  bouquet  of  emblematic  flowers  in 
the  Eastern  fashion;  but  Prince  Gregory  thought  it 
was  better  to  purchase  some  pipes  at  the  brother's, 
which  could  not  fail  to  soften  his  wild  temper,  and 
would  certainly  confer  a  very  great  pleasure  on  the 
lady,  as  she  was  much  of  a  smoker. 

"  Come  quick,  let 's  buy  the  pipes  !  "  said  Tartarin, 
full  of  ardor. 

"  No,  ...  no !  ...  Let  me  go  alone.  I  can  get 
them  cheaper.  ..." 

"  What  ?    Will  you  ?  .  .  .  O  prince,  . . .  prince  . . . !  " 

Quite  abashed,  the  good-hearted  fellow  offered  his 
purse  to  the  obliging  Montenegrin,  urging  him  to 
overlook  nothing  by  which  the  lady  would  be 
gratified. 

Unfortunately  the  suit,  albeit  capitally  begun,  did 
not  progress  as  rapidly  as  might  have  been  antici- 
pated. It  appeared  that  the  Moorish  beauty,  very 
deeply  affected  by  Tartarin's  eloquence,  and,  for 
that  matter,  three  fourths  won  beforehand,  would 
have  wished  nothing  better  than  to  receive  him ;  but 
her  brother  had  scruples,  and  to  lull  them  it  was 
necessary  to  buy  pipes  by  the  dozens,  —  by  the 
gross,  —  by  the  shipload.  .  .  . 

"  What  the  devil  can  Bai'a  do  with  all  these 
pipes  ? "  poor  Tartarin  asked  himself  more  than 
once ;  but  he  paid  the  bills  all  the  same,  and  without 
stinginess. 

At  length,  after  having  purchased  mountains  of 
pipes  and  poured  forth  lakes  of  Oriental  poesy, 
an  interview  was  arranged. 


156  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

I  have  no  need  to  tell  you  with  what  throbbings 
of  the  heart  the  Tarasconian  prepared  himself; 
with  what  carefulness  he  trimmed,  brilliantined,  and 
perfumed  his  rough  cap-hunter's  beard,  and  how  he 
did  not  forget  —  for  in  everything  there  is  need  of 
forethought  —  to  slip  a  spiky  life-preserver  and  two 
or  three  revolvers  into  his  pockets. 

The  ever-obliging  prince  went  to  this  first  tryst  as 
interpreter. 

The  lady  dwelt  .in  the  upper  part  of  the  town. 
Before  her  doorway  a  boy  Moor  of  thirteen  or  four- 
teen was  smoking  cigarettes.  This  was  the  cele- 
brated Ali,  the  brother  in  question.  On  seeing  the 
two  visitors  arrive,  he  gave  a  double  knock  on  the 
postern  gate  and  delicately  glided  away. 

The  door  opened.  A  negress  appeared,  who  with- 
out uttering  a  word  conducted  the  gentlemen  across 
the  narrow  inner  courtyard  into  a  small  cool  room, 
where  the  lady  was  awaiting  them,  reclining  on  a  low 
bed.  ...  At  first  glance  she  seemed  to  the  Taras- 
conian shorter  and  stouter  than  the  Moorish  damsel 
in  the  omnibus.  ...  In  fact,  was  it  really  the  same  ? 
But  the  doubt  merely  flashed  through  Tartarin's 
brain  like  a  stroke  of  lightning. 

The  lady  was  so  pretty  thus,  with  her  feet  bare, 
her  plump  fingers  loaded  with  rings,  she  was  so  pink, 
so  delicate ;  and  under  her  bodice  of  gilded  cloth  and 
the  folds  of  her  brocaded  dress  was  suggested  a 
lovely  creature,  somewhat  redundant,  rounded  every- 
where, and  nice  enough  to  eat.  .  .  .  The  amber 
mouthpiece  of  a  narghileh  smoked  at  her  lips,  and 
enveloped  her  wholly  in  a  halo  of  light-yellow  smoke. 


TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON 


157 


On  entering,  the  Tarasconian  laid  a  hand  on  his 
heart  and  bowed  as  Moorishly  as  possible,  rolling 
his  large  impassioned  eyes.  .  .  . 


Baia  gazed  on  him  for  a  moment  without  saying 
anything;  then,  dropping  her  amber  mouthpiece,  she 
threw  herself  back,  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and 
only  her  white  neck  could  be  seen  dancing  with  a 
wild  laugh,  like  a  bag  full  of  pearls. 


CHAPTER  XI 
Sidi  Tarfri  Ben   Tarfri. 


XI 


Sidi  Tarfri  Ben   Tarfri. 

SHOULD  you  ever  drop  into  the  Algerian  coffee- 
houses of  the  upper  town  after  dark,  even  at  this 
day,  you  would  still  hear  the  natives  chatting  among 
themselves,  with  many  a  wink  and  slight  laugh, 
of  one  Sidi  Tart'ri  Ben  Tart'ri,  a  rich  and  good- 
humored  European,  who  dwelt,  a  few  years  back,  in 
that  neighborhood  with  a  little  lady  of  local  origin, 
named  Ba'fa. 

This  Sidi  Tart'ri,  who  left  such  a  merry  memory 
around  the  Kasbah,  is  no  other  than  our  Tartarin, 
as  will  be  guessed. 

161 


l62  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

What  could  you  expect?  In  the  lives  of  saints 
and  heroes,  it  happens  the  same  way,  —  there  are 
moments  of  blindness,  perturbation,  and  weakness. 
The  illustrious  Tarasconian  was  no  more  exempt 
from  this  than  another,  and  that  is  the  reason  that 
during  two  months,  oblivious  of  lions  and  glory,  he 
revelled  in  Oriental  amorousness,  and  dozed,  like 
Hannibal  at  Capua,  in  the  delights  of  Algiers  the 
White. 

The  good  fellow  took  a  pretty  little  house  in  the 
native  style  in  the  heart  of  the  Arab  town,  with  inner 
courtyard,  banana-trees,  cool  verandahs,  and  foun- 
tains. Afar  from  noise,  in  company  with  his  Moor- 
ish charmer,  he  dwelt  there,  himself  a  Moor  from 
top  to  toe,  pulling  at  his  narghileh  all  day  and  eating 
musk-scented  sweets. 

Stretched  out  on  a  divan  in  front  of  him,  Bai'a, 
with  a  guitar  on  her  arm,  would  drone  him  monoto- 
nous tunes  ;  or  else,  to  distract  her  lord  and  master, 
favor  him  with  the  Danse  du  venire,  holding  up  a 
little  mirror  in  which  she  reflected  her  white  teeth 
and  the  faces  she  made. 

As  the  lady  knew  not  a  word  of  French,  and 
Tartarin  not  a  word  of  Arabic,  the  conversation 
sometimes  languished,  and  the  Tarasconian  prattler 
had  plenty  of  leisure  to  do  penance  for  the  gush  of 
language  of  which  he  had  been  guilty  in  Bdzuquet's 
apothecary  shop  or  at  Costecalde  the  gunmaker's. 

But  this  penance  was  not  devoid  of  charm,  and  he 
felt  a  kind  of  voluptuous  spleen  in  dawdling  away 
the  whole  day  without  speaking,  and  in  listening  to 
the  gurgling  of  the  narghileh,  the  strumming  of  the 


TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON  163 

guitar,  and  the  faint  splashing  of  the  fountain  on  the 
mosaic  pavement  of  the  courtyard. 

The  pipe,  the  bath,  caresses  filled  his  entire  life. 
They  seldom  went  out  of  doors.  Sometimes,  with 
his  lady-love  on  a  pillion,  Sidi  Tart'ri  would  ride  out 
on  a  sturdy  mule  to  eat  pomegranates  in  a  little 
garden  he  had  purchased  in  the  suburbs.  .  .  .  But 
never,  never  in  the  world  did  he  go  down  into 
the  European  quarter.  That  part  of  Algiers,  with  its 
drunken  Zouaves,  its  alcazars  crammed  with  officers, 
and  its  everlasting  clink  of  sabre-sheaths  under  the 
arcades,  appeared  to  him  as  ugly  and  unbearable  as 
a  barracks  at  home. 

In  short,  our  Tarasconian  was  very  happy. 

Sancho-Tartarin  particularly,  being  very  sweet  on 
Turkish  pastry,  declared  that  nothing  could  be  more 
satisfactory  than  this  new  existence.  .  .  .  Quixote- 
Tartarin  now  and  then  had  twinges  of  conscience 
on  thinking  of  Tarascon  and  the  lion-skins  which  he 
had  promised  ;  .  .  .  but  this  remorse  did  not  last, 
and  to  drive  away  such  gloomy  ideas  one  glance 
from  Ba'ia,  or  a  spoonful  of  those  diabolical  sweet- 
meats, dizzying  and  odoriferous  like  Circe's  potions, 
was  sufficient. 

In  the  evening  Gregory  came  to  discourse  a  little 
about  a  free  Montenegro.  ...  Of  indefatigable  oblig- 
ingness, this  amiable  nobleman  filled  the  functions 
of  an  interpreter  in  the  household,  at  a  pinch  even 
those  of  a  steward,  and  all  for  nothing, — for  the 
sheer  pleasure  of  it.  ...  With  the  exception  of  him, 
Tartarin  received  none  but  "  Teurs"  All  those 


164  TARTAR  IN  OF  TARASCON 

fierce-headed  pirates  who  had  at  first  given  him 
such  frights  from  the  backs  of  their  black  stalls 
proved,  when  once  he  made  their  acquaintance,  to 
be  good  inoffensive  tradesmen,  embroiderers,  dealers 
in  spice,  pipe-mouthpiece  turners  —  well-bred  fellows, 
humble,  clever,  close,  and  first-class  hands  at  homely 
card  games.  Four  or  five  times  a  week  these  gentry 
would  come  and  spend  the  evening  at  Sidi  Tart'ri's, 
win  his  money,  eat  his  cates  and  dainties,  and  dis- 
creetly retire  on  the  stroke  of  ten  with  thanks  to  the 
Prophet. 

Left  alone,  Sidi  Tart'ri  and  his  faithful  spouse 
would  finish  the  evening  on  their  terrace,  a  broad 
white  terrace,  serving  as  a  roof  to  the  house  and 
overlooking  the  city. 

All  around  them  a  thousand  of  other  such  white 
terraces,  placid  beneath  the  moonshine,  sloped  down 
like  steps  to  the  sea.  The  sound  of  tinkling  guitars 
came  to  them  on  the  wings  of  the  breeze.  .  .  .  Sud- 
denly, like  a  shower  of  firework  stars,  a  full,  clear 
melody  would  be  softly  sprinkled  out  from  the  sky, 
and  on  the  minaret  of  the  neighboring  mosque  a 
handsome  muezzin  would  appear,  a  wan  shadow 
outlined  on  the  deep  blue  of  the  night,  and  chant 
the  glory  of  Allah  with  a  marvellous  voice,  filling 
the  horizon. 

Thereupon  BaTa  would  let  go  her  guitar,  and  with 
her  large  eyes  turned  toward  the  crier,  seem  to 
imbibe  the  prayer  deliciously.  As  long  as  the  chant 
endured  she  would  remain  there  thrilled,  in  ecstasy, 
like  an  Oriental  Saint  Theresa.  .  .  .  Tartarin,  deeply 


TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON  165 

impressed,  would  watch  her  pray,  and  conclude  that 
it  must  be  a  splendid  and  powerful  creed  that  could 
cause  such  frenzies  of  faith. 

Tarascon,  veil  thy  face !     Thy  Tartarin  was  on 
the  point  of  becoming  a  renegade  ! 


CHAPTER  XII 


The  latest  news  from  Tarascon. 


XII 


The  latest  news  from  Tarascon. 

ONE  fine  afternoon  when  the  sky  was  blue  and 
the  breeze  was  warm,  Sidi  Tart'ri  astride  of  his  mule 
was  returning  alone  from  his  little  country-seat.  .  .  . 
With  his  legs  kept  wide  apart  by  ample  esparto 
saddle-bags  stuffed  with  lemons  and  watermelons, 
lulled  by  the  ring  of  his  large  stirrups,  and  rocking 
his  whole  body  to  the  balin  balan  of  his  beast,  the 
worthy  man  was  thus  traversing  an  adorable  country, 
with  his  hands  folded  on  his  paunch,  three  quarters 
asleep  through  the  heat  and  the  comfort  of  it  all. 

Suddenly,  on  entering  the  town,  a  deafening  appeal 
aroused  him  :  — 

"  He  !  monstre  de  sort!  Anybody  'd  take  this  for 
Monsieur  Tartarin." 

At  the  name  of  Tartarin,  at  this  jolly  Southern 
accent,  the  Tarasconian  lifted  his  head,  and  per- 
ceived, a  couple  of  steps  away,  the  honest  tanned 

169 


I/O  TARTAR  IN  OF   TARASCON 

visage  of  Captain  Barbassou,  captain  of  the  "Zouave,"' 
who  was  taking  his  absinthe  and  smoking  his  pipe  at 
the  door  of  a  little  coffee-house. 

"  He  !  Lord  love  you,  Barbassou  !  "  said  Tartarin, 
pulling  up  his  mule. 

Instead  of  continuing  the  dialogue,  Barbassou 
stared  at  him  for  a  moment ;  then  he  burst  into  a 
peal  of  such  hilarity  that  Sidi  Tart'ri  sat  back  dum- 
founded  on  his  melons. 

"  What  a  turban,  my  poor  Monsieur  Tartarin  !  .  .  . 
Is  it  true,  what  they  say  of  your  having  turned 
Teur  ?  .  .  .  How  is  little  Ba'i'a  ?  Is  she  still  singing 
« Marco  la  Belle '  ?  " 

"  Marco  la  Belle  ! "  repeated  the  indignant  Tar- 
tarin.  ..."  I  '11  have  you  to  know,  Captain,  that  the 
person  you  mention  is  an  honorable  Moorish  lady, 
and  that  she  does  not  know  a  word  of  French." 

"  Ba'ia  does  not  know  French !  .  .  .  Where  do 
you  hail  from,  then  ?  ,  .  . " 

And  the  worthy  captain  broke  into  still  heartier 
laughter. 

Then,  seeing  the  poor  Sidi  Tart'ri's  face  growing 
long,  he  changed  his  course. 

"  However,  maybe  it 's  not  the  same.  .  .  .  Let 's 
reckon  that  I  have  mixed  'em  up.  .  .  .  Still,  mark 
you,  Monsieur  Tartarin,  you  will  do  well,  none  the 
less,  to  distrust  the  Moorish  women  of  Algiers  and 
princes  from  Montenegro." 

Tartarin  rose  in  the  stirrups,  making  his  own 
grimace. 

"The  prince  is  my  friend,  Captain." 

"  Come,  come,  don't  wax  wrathy.  .  .  .  Won't  you 


TARTARIN  OF   TAR  A  SCON  I/ 1 

have  some  absinthe  ?  No?  Haven't  you  anything 
to  say  to  the  folks  at  home  ?  No,  again  ?  .  .  .  Well, 
then,  a  pleasant  journey.  ...  By  the  way,  mate,  I 
have  some  good  French  tobacco,  and  if  you  would 
like  to  carry  away  a  few  pipefuls  .  .  .  Take  it,  take 
it,  won't  you?  It  will  do  you  good.  ...  It's  your 
beastly  Oriental  tobaccoes  that  have  befogged  your 
brain." 

Upon  this  the  captain  returned  to  his  absinthe, 
and  the  moody  Tartarin  trotted  slowly  on  the  road 
to  his  little  house.  .  .  .  Although  his  great  soul  re- 
fused to  credit  anything,  Barbassou's  insinuations 
had  vexed  him,  and  the  familiar  adjurations  and  the 
home  accent  had  awakened  in  him  vague  remorse. 

At  the  house  he  found  no  one.  Ba'ia  was  taking 
her  bath.  .  .  .  The  negress  seemed  to  him  ugly,  the 
dwelling  melancholy.  ...  A  prey  to  indefinable  sad- 
ness, he  went  and  sat  down  by  the  fountain  and 
filled  a  pipe  with  Barbassou's  tobacco.  This  tobacco 
was  wrapped  up  in  a  piece  of  the  "  Semaphore."  On 
flattening  it  out,  the  name  of  his  native  place  struck 
his  eyes. 

"Our  Tarascon  correspondent  -writes:  — 

"  The  city  is  in  distress.  There  has  been  no  news  for  several 
months  from  Tartarin  the  lion-slayer,  who  went  to  hunt  the  great 
feline  tribe  in  Africa.  .  .  .  What  can  have  become  of  our  heroic 
fellow-countryman  ?  .  .  .  Those  who  know,  as  we  do,  how  hot- 
headed and  how  bold,  how  thirsting  for  adventures,  he  was, 
hardly  dare  ask.  .  .  .  Has  he,  like  many  others,  been  smothered 
in  the  sands,  or  has  he  fallen  under  the  murderous  fangs  of  one 
of  those  monsters  of  the  Atlas  Range,  the  skins  of  which  he  had 
promised  to  the  municipality  ?  .  .  .  Dreadful  uncertainty  !  It 
is  true  some  negro  traders,  come  to  Beaucaire  Fair,  assert  having 


1/2  TARTAR  IN  OF   TARASCON 

met  in  the  middle  of  the  desert  a  European  whose  description 
agreed  with  his ;  he  was  proceeding  toward  Timbuctoo.  .  .  . 
May  Heaven  preserve  our  Tartarin  !  " 

When  he  read  this,  the  Tarasconian  reddened, 
blanched,  shuddered.  All  Tarascon  appeared  unto 
him :  the  club,  the  cap-hunters,  Costecalde's  green 
arm-chair,  and,  hovering  over  all  like  a  spread  eagle, 
the  imposing  mustaches  of  the  gallant  Commandant 
Bravida. 

Then,  at  seeing  himself  here,  as  he  was,  cowardly 
lolling  on  a  mat,  while  his  friends  believed  him  to  be 
slaughtering  wild  beasts,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  was 
ashamed  of  himself,  and  wept. 

Suddenly  he  leaped  up. 

"  The  lions !  the  lions  !  " 

And  dashing  into  the  dusty  lumber-hole  where 
slept  the  shelter-tent,  the  medicine-chest,  the  potted 
meats,  and  the  gun-cases,  he  dragged  them  out  into 
the  middle  of  the  court. 

Sancho-Tartarin  was  no  more  :  Quixote- Tartarin 
alone  was  left. 

Only  time  to  inspect  his  armament  and  stores,  don 
his  harness,  get  into  his  heavy  boots,  scribble  a 
couple  of  words  to  confide  Ba'ia  to  the  prince,  only 
time  to  slip  a  few  bank-notes  sprinkled  with  tears 
into  the  envelope,  and  then  the  intrepid  Tarasconian 
was  rolling  away  in  the  stage-coach  on  the  Blidah 
road,  leaving  the  house  to  the  negress,  stupor-stricken 
before  the  narghileh,  the  turban,  the  babooshes,  — 
all  of  Sidi  Tart'ri's  Mussulman  belongings  sprawl- 
ing piteously  under  the  little  white  trefoils  of  the 
gallery.  .  .  . 


THIRD    EPISODE. 


AMONG    THE    LIONS. 


CHAFFER  1 
Exiled  stage-coaches . 


Exiled  stage-coaches. 

IT  was  an  ancient,  old-fashioned  diligence,  up- 
holstered in  coarse  blue  cloth  all  faded,  with  those 
enormous  rough  woollen  pads  which,  after  a  few 
hours'  journey,  finally  cause  raw  spots  in  your  back. 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon  had  a  corner  of  the  inside, 
where  he  installed  himself  as  best  he  could ;  and, 
until  he  should  breathe  the  musky  emanations  of 
the  great  African  felines,  the  hero  had  to  content 
himself  with  that  good  old  stage-coach  odor,  oddly 
composed  of  a  thousand  smells  of  men  and  horses, 
women  and  leather,  eatables  and  musty  straw.  - 

There  was  a  little  of  everything  inside,  —  a  Trap- 
pist  monk,  some  Jew  merchants,  two  fast  ladies 
going  to  join  their  regiment,  —  the  Third  Hussars,  — 
a  photographer  from  Orldansville.  .  .  .  But,  how- 
ever charming  and  varied  was  the  company,  the 
Tarasconian  was  not  in  the  mood  for  chatting;  he 
remained  quite  thoughtful,  with  an  arm  in  the  sling- 
strap,  with  his  guns  between  his  knees.  .  .  . 

177 


178  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

His  precipitate  departure,  Ba'ia's  black  eyes,  the 
terrible  hunting  he  was  about  to  undertake,  —  all 
disturbed  his  imagination,  to  say  nothing  of  this 
European  diligence,  with  its  patriarchal  aspect,  re- 
discovered in  the  heart  of  Africa,  vaguely  recalling 
the  Tarascon  of  his  youth,  with  its  races  in  the 
suburbs,  jolly  dinners  on  the  river-side,  a  throng  of 
memories.  .  .  . 

Gradually  night  came  on.  The  guard  lit  up  the 
lamps.  .  .  .  The  rusty  diligence  bobbed  and  creaked 
on  its  old  springs ;  the  horses  trotted,  the  bells 
jangled.  .  .  .  From  time  to  time  under  the  awning 
of  the  imperial  a  dreadful  clank  of  iron  .  .  .  that  was 
the  war  material. 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  three  quarters  asleep,  for 
a  moment  scanned  his  fellow-passengers,  comically 
shaken  by  the  jolts,  and  dancing  before  him  like 
comic  shadows  ;  then  his  eyes  grew  cloudy  and  his 
mind  befogged,  and  only  vaguely  he  heard  the 
wheels  grinding  on  the  axles,  and  the  sides  of  the 
diligence  complaining.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  a  voice  called  the  Tarasconian  by  his 
name,  —  the  voice  of  an  old  fairy  godmother,  hoarse, 
broken,  and  cracked. 

"  Monsieur  Tartarin  !  Monsieur  Tartarin  !" 

"  Who  's  calling  me  ?  " 

"  It 's  I,  Monsieur  Tartarin.  Don't  you  recognize 
me  ?  ...  I  am  the  old  diligence  who  used  to  do  the 
road  betwixt  Nimes  and  Tarascon  twenty  years  ago. 
.  .  .  How  many  times  I  have  carried  you  and  your 
friends  when  you  went  to  shoot  at  caps  over  Jonc- 
quieres  or  Bellegarde  way  !  ...  I  did  not  place  you 


TARTARIN  OF   TARASCOtf  179 

at  first,  on  account  of  your  Teur's  cap  and  the  flesh 
you  have  accumulated ;  but  as  soon  as  you  began  to 
snore,  —  coquin  de  ban  sort !  —  I  knew  you  instantly." 

"  All  right,  that 's  all  right !  "  observed  the  Taras- 
conian,  a  shade  vexed.  Then,  softening,  he  added, 
"But  to  the  point,  my  poor  old  girl;  what  did  you 
come  out  here  for  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  my  good  Monsieur  Tartarin,  I  assure  you 
I  never  came  of  my  own  free  will.  .  .  .  As  soon  as 
the  Beaucaire  Railway  was  finished,  1  was  considered 
good  for  nothing,  and  shipped  away  to  Africa.  .  .  . 
And  I  am  not  the  only  one,  either !  Almost  all  the 
old  diligences  of  France  have  been  packed  off  like 
me.  We  were  regarded  as  too  conservative,  —  '  the 
slow  coaches,'  —  and  now  we  are  all  here  leading  a 
dog's  life.  .  .  .  This  is  what  you  in  France  call  the 
Algerian  railways :  — 

Here  the  ancient  vehicle  heaved  a  long-drawn  sigh. 
Then  she  proceeded  :  — 

"  Ah,  Monsieur  Tartarin,  how  I  regret  my  lovely 
Tarascon  !  That  was  the  good  time  for  me,  when  I 
was  young!  It  was  a  great  sight  when  I  started  off 
in  the  morning,  washed  with  no  stint  of  water  and 
all  ashine,  with  my  wheels  freshly  varnished,  my 
lamps  blazing  like  two  suns,  and  my  boot  always 
rubbed  up  with  oil  !  It  was  indeed  lovely  when  the 
postilion  cracked  his  whip  to  the  tune  of  '  Lagadiga- 
cleou,  the  Tarasque  !  the  Tarasque  ! '  and  the  guard, 
his  horn  in  its  sling,  his  laced  cap  cocked  well  over 
one  ear,  chucking  his  little  dog,  always  in  a  fury,  on 
the  awning  of  the  imperial,  climbed  up  himself  with 
a  shout :  '  Right  —  away ! ' 


180  TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON 

"  Then  would  my  four  horses  dash  off  to  the 
medley  of  bells,  barks,  and  horn-blasts,  the  win- 
dows would  fly  open,  and  all  Tarascon  would  look 
with  pride  as  the  diligence  darted  over  the  king's 
highway. 

"  What  a  splendid  road  that  was,  Monsieur  Tar- 
tarin,  broad  and  well  kept,  with  its  mile-stones,  its 
little  heaps  of  road-metal  at  regular  distances,  and 
its  pretty  plains  full  of  vines  and  olive-trees  !  .  .  . 
Then,  the  taverns  every  ten  steps,  and  the  changes 
of  horses  every  five  minutes !  .  .  .  And  what  jolly, 
honest  chaps  my  patrons  were  !  —  village  mayors  and 
parish  priests  going  up  to  Nimes  to  see  their  prefect 
or  their  bishop,  taffety-weavers  returning  openly  from 
the  Mazet,  collegians  on  their  vacations,  peasants  in 
worked  smock-frocks,  all  fresh  shaven  that  morning; 
and  up  above,  on  the  imperial,  you  gentlemen,  you 
cap-hunters,  always  in  high  spirits,  and  singing  each 
your  own  family  ballad  to  the  stars  as  you  came  back 
in  the  evening.  .  .  . 

"  Now  it 's  another  story.  .  .  .  Lord  knows  the  kind 
of  folks  I  am  carting  here, — a  crowd  of  infidels 
come  from  no  one  knows  where !  They  fill  me 
with  vermin,  with  negroes,  with  Bedouin  Arabs,  with 
swashbucklers,  adventurers  from  every  land,  with 
ragged  settlers  who  poison  me  with  their  pipes,  and 
all  jabbering  a  language  that  the  Almighty  himself 
could  make  nothing  of  !  ...  And,  furthermore,  you 
see  how  I  am  treated,  —  never  brushed,  never  washed. 
They  begrudge  me  grease  for  my  axles.  .  .  .  Instead 
of  my  good  fat  quiet  horses  of  other  days,  little 
Arab  ponies,  with  the  devil  in  their  frames,  who 


TARTAR  IN  OF   TARASCON  l8l 

fight  and  bite,  caper  as  they  run  like  so  many  goats, 
and  smash  my  shafts  with  their  heels.  .  .  .  Ate!  .  .  . 
aie!  .  .  .  there  they  are  at  it  again  !  .  .  . 

"And  such  roads!  Just  here  it  is  bearable,  be- 
cause we  are  near  the  governmental  headquarters ; 
but  out  a  bit  there  's  nothing,  no  road  at  all.  We 
get  along  as  we  can  over  hill  and  dale,  among  dwarf 
palms  and  mastic-trees.  .  .  .  Never  a  certain  change 
of  horses.  We  stop  at  the  guard's  whim,  — now  at 
one  farm,  again  at  another. 

"  Sometimes  this  rogue  goes  a  couple  of  leagues 
out  of  the  way  to  have  a  glass  of  absinthe  orchampo- 
reau  with  a  friend.  .  .  .  After  which,  '  Whip  up, 
postilion  !  '  so  as  to  make  the  lost  time.  The  sun 
broils,  the  dust  scorches,  we  whip  up  !  We  catch  in 
the  scrub  and  spill  over,  but  whip  up  !  We  swim 
rivers,  we  catch  cold,  we  get  swamped,  we  drown,  .  .  . 
but  whip!  whip!  whip!  .  .  .  Then  in  the  evening, 
all  streaming,  —  a  nice  thing  for  my  age,  with  my 
rheumatics  !  .  .  .  —  I  have  to  sleep  in  the  open  air  of 
some  caravanserai  yard,  open  to  all  the  winds.  In 
the  night  jackals  and  hyaenas  come  sniffing  my 
body ;  and  the  marauders,  who  don't  like  the  dew, 
get  into  my  compartment  to  keep  warm.  .  .  . 

"  Such  is  the  life  I  lead,  my  poor  Monsieur  Tar- 
tarin,  and  that  I  shall  lead  to  the  day  when  —  burnt 
up  by  the  sun  and  rotted  by  the  damp  nights  — 
unable  to  do  anything  else  —  I  shall  fall  in  some  spot 
of  bad  road,  where  the  Arabs  will  boil  their  kous- 
kous  with  the  bones  of  my  old  carcass  ..." 

"Blidah!  Blidah  !  "  called  out  the  guard,  as  he 
opened  the  door. 


CHAPTER  IT 
In  which  a  little  man  is  seen  to  pass. 


II 


/;/  which  a  little  man  is  seen  to  pass. 

THROUGH  the  steam-dimmed  panes  Tartarin  of 
'Tarascon  could  vaguely  see  a  market-place,  as  of  a 
pretty  provincial  town, —  a  regular  square,  sur- 
rounded bv  arcades  and  planted  with  orange- 
trees,  —  in  the  midst  of  which  little  tin  soldiers  were 
going  through  their  exercise  in  the  clear  roseate 
morning  mist.  The  cafe's  were  taking  down  their 
shutters.  In  one  corner,  a  vegetable  market.  ...  It 
was  bewitching,  but  it  did  not  smack  of  lions  yet. 

"To  the  South!  farther  to  the  South!"  muttered 
the  good  Tartarin,  sinking  back  in  his  corner. 

185 


1 86  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened.  A  puff  of  fresh, 
air  rushed  in,  bearing  on  its  wings,  in  the  perfume 
of  orange-blossoms,  a  very  short  gentleman  in  a 
brown  frock-coat,  old  and  dry,  wrinkled  and  for- 
mal, his  face  no  bigger  than  your  fist,  his  black 
silk  neck-cloth  five  fingers  wide,  a  notary's  letter- 
case,  and  umbrella,  —  the  very  picture  of  a  village 
solicitor. 

On  perceiving  the  Tarasconian's  warlike  equip- 
ment, the  little  gentleman,  who  had  sat  down  oppo- 
site him,  appeared  excessively  surprised,  and  began 
to  stare  at  Tartarin  with  annoying  persistency. 

The  horses  were  taken  out  and  the  fresh  ones  put 
in;  the  coach  started  off  again.  .  .  .  The  little  gentle- 
man still  gazed  at  Tartarin.  .  .  .  At  last  the  Taras- 
conian  took  offence  at  it. 

"Does  it  astonish  you?"  he  demanded,  staring 
the  little  gentleman  full  in  the  face  in  his  turn. 

"  No  !  it  annoys  me,"  responded  the  other,  very 
tranquilly. 

And  the  fact  is,  that,  with  his  shelter-tent,  his 
revolvers,  his  two  guns  in  their  cases,  and  hunting- 
knife,  not  to  speak  of  his  natural  corpulence, 
Tartarin  of  Tarascon  took  up  a  lot  of  room.  .  .  . 

The  little  gentleman's  reply  angered  him. 

"Do  you  by  any  chance  fancy  that  I  am  going 
lion-hunting  with  your  umbrella?"  queried  the  great 
man,  haughtily. 

The  little  man  looked  at  his  umbrella,  smiled 
blandly ;  then,  still  with  the  same  lack  of  emotion, 
inquired,  — 

"  Then,  sir,  you  are  —  " 


TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON  187 

"  Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  lion-killer  !  " 

In  uttering  these  words  the  intrepid  Tarasconian 
shook  the  tassel  of  his  Chechia  like  a  mane. 

There  was  in  the  diligence  a  movement  of  stupe- 
faction. 

The  Trappist  brother  crossed  himself,  the  dubious 
women  uttered  little  screams  of  affright,  and  the 
Orleansville  photographer  bent  over  toward  the  lion- 
slayer,  already  meditating  the  distinguished  honor 
of  taking  his  likeness. 

The  little  man,  though,  was  not  awed. 

"  Have  you  already  killed  many  lions,  Monsieur 
Tartarin  ? "  he  asked  very  quietly. 

The  Tarasconian  received  his  charge  in  the  hand- 
somest manner. 

"  Have  I  killed  many,  Monsieur?  ...  I  only  wish 
you  had  as  many  hairs  on  your  head !  " 

All  the  coach  laughed  on  observing  three  yel- 
low bristles  standing  up  on'  the  little  gentleman's 
skull. 

In  his  turn,  the  Orldansville  photographer  struck 
in :  — 

"  Yours  must  be  a  terrible  profession,  Monsieur 
Tartarin.  .  .  .  You  must  pass  some  ugly  moments 
sometimes.  ...  I  have  heard  that  poor  Monsieur 
Bombonnel  ..." 

"  Oh,  yes,  the  panther-killer  ..."  said  Tartarin, 
rather  disdainfully. 

"  Are  you  acquainted  with  him  ? "  demanded  the 
little  man. 

"  Te !  pardil  .  .  .  Know  him?  .  .  .  We  have  been 
out  on  the  hunt  over  twenty  times  together." 


1 88  TARTAR  IN  OF  TARASCON 

The  little  gentleman  smiled:  — 

"  So  you  also  hunt  panthers,  Monsieur  Tartarin?  " 

"  Sometimes,  just  for  pastime,"  said  the  fiery 
Tarasconian.  "  But,"  he  added,  tossing  his  head 
with  a  heroic  movement  that  inflamed  the  heart  of 
the  two  cocottes,  "  that 's  nothing  compared  to  lion- 
hunting." 

"  After  all,"  ventured  the  photographer,  "  a  pan- 
ther is  only  a  big  cat  ..." 

"  Right  you  are  !  "  said  Tartarin,  not  sorry  to  abate 
the  celebrated  Bombonnel's  glory  a  little,  particularly 
in  the  presence  of  ladies. 

Here  the  coach  stopped.  The  guard  came  to 
open  the  door,  and  addressed  the  little  old  gentleman 
most  respectfully,  saying, — 

"  Here  we  are,  sir." 

The  little  gentleman  got  up,  stepped  out,  and  said, 
before  the  door  was  closed  again, — 

"Will  you  let  me  give  you  a  bit  of  advice, 
Monsieur  Tartarin  ?  " 

"What  is  it,  Monsieur?" 

"  Faith  !  you  look  like  a  good  fellow.  I  prefer  to 
tell  you  things  as  they  are.  Go  back  quickly  to 
Tarascon,  Monsieur  Tartarin.  .  .  .  You  are  wasting 
your  time  here.  ...  A  few  panthers  are  left  in  the 
colony :  but,  out  upon  the  big  cats  !  they  are  too 
small  game  for  you.  ...  As  for  lions,  they  're  all 
gone.  There's  none  left  in  Algeria  .  .  .  my  friend 
Chassaing  has  lately  killed  the  last." 

Upon  which  the  little  gentleman  saluted,  closed 
the  door,  and  trotted  away  chuckling,  with  his 
document-wallet  and  umbrella. 


TARTARIN  OF  TAKASCON  189 

"  Guard,"  asked  Tartarin,  screwing  up  his  face 
contemptuously,  "  who  under  the  sun  is  that  little 
man?  " 

"  What !  don't  you  know  him  ?  Why,  that 's 
Monsieur  Bombonnel!" 


CHAPTER  III 
A  monastery  of  Lions. 


y4  monastery  of  lions. 

AT  Milianah,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  alighted,  leav- 
ing the  stage-coach  to  continue  its  way  toward  the 
South. 

Two  days  of  rough  jolting,  two  nights  spent  with 
open  eyes  gazing  out  of  the  window  with  the  hope  of 
discovering  the  dread  figure  of  a  lion  in  the  fields 
along  the  road,  —  so  much  sleeplessness  well  deserved 
some  hours'  repose.  Besides,  if  we  must  tell  every- 
thing, since  his  misadventure  with  Bombonnel,  the 
outspoken  Tartarin,  notwithstanding  his  weapons,  his 
terrifying  visage,  and  his  red  cap,  felt  ill  at  ease 
before  the  Orleansville  photographer  and  the  two 
young  ladies  of  the  Third  Hussars. 

So  he  proceeded  through  the  broad  streets  of 
Milianah,  full  of  fine  trees  and  fountains;  but  while 
looking  up  a  suitable  hotel,  the  poor  fellow  could  not 
help  musing  over  Bombonnel's  words.  .  .  .  Suppose 

193 


194  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

they  were  true  !  Suppose  there  were  no  more  lions 
in  Algeria  ?  .  .  .  What  would  be  the  good  then  of  so 
much  running  about,  of  so  many  fatigues  ?  .  .  . 

Suddenly,  at  the  turn  of  a  street,  our  hero  found 
himself  face  to  face  with  — with  what  ?  Guess  !  .  .  . 
With  a  splendid  lion  waiting  before  a  coffee-house 
door,  royally  sitting  up  on  his  hind-quarters,  with 
his  tawny  mane  gleaming  in  the  sun. 

"  What  did  they  mean  by  telling  me  that  there 
were  no  more  of  them  ?  "  exclaimed  the  Tarasconian, 
as  he  recoiled. 

On  hearing  this  outcry,  the  lion  lowered  his  head, 
and,  taking  up  in  his  mouth  a  wooden  bowl  that 
was  before  him  on  the  sidewalk,  humbly  held  it 
out  towards  Tartarin,  who  was  immovable  with 
stupefaction.  ...  A  passing  Arab  tossed  a  copper 
into  the  bowl ;  the  lion  wagged  his  tail.  .  .  .  There- 
upon Tartarin  understood  it  all.  He  saw,  what 
emotion  had  prevented  him  previously  perceiving,  the 
crowd  gathered  around  a  poor  tame  blind  lion,  and 
the  two  stalwart  negroes,  armed  with  staves,  who 
were  marching  him  through  the  town  as  a  Savoyard 
does  a  marmot. 

The  blood  of  Tarascon  boiled  over  at  once. 

"  Wretches ! "  he  roared  in  a  voice  of  thunder, 
"  thus  to  debase  such  noble  beasts ! " 

And  springing  to  the  lion,  he  wrenched  the  loath- 
some bowl  from  between  his  royal  jaws.  .  .  .  The 
two  negroes,  believing  they  had  a  thief  to  contend 
with,  rushed  upon  the  Tarasconian  with  uplifted 
cudgels.  .  .  .  There  was  a  dreadful  tussle.  .  .  .  The 
negroes  whacked,  the  women  screamed,  the  young- 


TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON 


195 


sters  laughed.  An  old  Jew  cobbler  shouted  from 
the  depths  of  his  slicp,  "  Dake  him  to  the  shustish 
of  thebeace!"  The  lion  himself,  in  his  blindness, 


tried  to  roar ;  and  the  unhappy  Tartarin,  after  a 
desperate  struggle,  rolled  on  the  ground  among  the 
spilt  sous  and  the  sweepings. 

At  this  juncture  a  man  cleft  the  throng;  made  the 
negroes  stand  back  with  a  word,  and  the  women  and 
urchins  with  a  wave  of  the  hand ;  lifted  up  Tartarin, 
brushed  him  down,  shook  him  into  shape,  and  sat 
him  breathless  upon  a  curbstone. 

"  What,^r//#«tf,  is  it  you  ?  "  said  the  good  Tartarin, 
rubbing  his  ribs. 

"Yes,  indeed,  it  is  I,  my  valiant  friend.     As  soon 


196  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

as  your  letter  was  received,  I  intrusted  Ba'ia  to  her 
brother,  hired  a  post-chaise,  flew  fifty  leagues  as  fast 
as  a  horse  could  go,  and  here  I  am,  just  in  time  to 
snatch  you  from  the  brutality  of  these  ruffians.  .  .  . 
What  in  Heaven's  name  have  you  been  doing  to 
bring  this  ugly  trouble  upon  you?" 

"There,  now,  preince !  ...  It  was  too  much  for 
me  to  see  this  unfortunate  lion  with  a  wooden  bowl 
in  his  mouth,  humiliated,  conquered,  buffeted  about, 
set  up  as  a  laughing-stock  to  all  this  Mussulman 
rabble  —  " 

"  But  you  are  wrong,  my  noble  friend.  On  the 
contrary,  this  lion  is  an  object  of  respect  and  adora- 
tion. This  is  a  sacred  beast  which  belongs  to  a 
great  monastery  of  lions,  founded  three  hundred  years 
ago  by  Mahommed-Ben-Auda,  a  kind  of  fierce  and 
formidable  La  Trappe,  full  of  roarings  and  wild- 
beastly  odors,  where  strange  monks  rear  and  tame 
lions  by  hundreds,  and  send  them  out  all  over  North- 
ern Africa,  accompanied  by  begging  brothers.  .  .  . 
The  alms  they  receive  serve  for  the  maintenance  of 
the  monastery  and  its  mosque ;  and  the  two  negroes 
showed  so  much  displeasure  just  now  because  it  was 
their  conviction  that  the  lion  under  their  charge 
would  forthwith  devour  them  if  a  sou,  a  single  sou, 
of  their  collection  were  lost  or  stolen  through  any 
fault  of  theirs." 

On  hearing  this  incredible  and  yet  veracious  story, 
Tartarin  of  Tarascon  was  delighted,  and  sniffed  the 
air  noisily. 

•'What  pleases  me  in  this,"  he  remarked,  as  the 
summing  up  of  his  opinion,  "is  that,  whether  Mon- 


TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON  1 97 

sieur  Bombonnel  likes  it  or  not,  there  are  still  lions 
in  Algeria.  ..." 

"  I  should  think  there  were ! "  ejaculated  the 
prince,  enthusiastically.  ..."  We  will  start  to-morrow 
beating  up  the  Sheliff  Plain,  and  you  will  see  !  .  .  .  " 

"  What,  prince !  ...  do  you  intend  to  go  a-hunting 
too?" 

"  Of  course !  Do  you  think  I  am  going  to  leave 
you  to  march  by  yourself  into  the  heart  of  Africa, 
in  the  midst  of  ferocious  tribes  of  whose  languages 
and  usages  you  are  ignorant !  .  .  .  No,  no,  illustrious 
Tartarin,  I  shall  quit  you  no  more.  .  .  .  Wherever 
you  go,  I  want  to  be  there." 

"  O  preince  !  prelnce  !  " 

The  beaming  Tartarin  hugged  the  devoted  Gregory 
to  his  breast  with  pride  at  the  thought  that,  like  Jules 
Gerard,  Bombonnel,  and  other  famous  lion-slayers, 
he  was  to  have  a  foreign  prince  to  accompany  him 
in  his  hunting. 


CHAPTER  IV 
The  caravan  on  the  march. 


IV 

The  caravan  on  the  inarch. 

LEAVING  Milianah  at  the  earliest  hour  next  morn- 
ing, the  intrepid  Tartarin  and  the  no  less  intrepid 
Prince  Gregory,  followed  by  half-a-dozen  negro 
porters,  descended  towards  the  Sheliff  Plain  through 
a  delightful  gorge  shaded  with  jasmines,  tuyas, 
carob-trees,  and  wild  olives,  between  hedges  of  little 
native  gardens,  and  thousands  of  merry,  lively  rills 
which  scampered  down  from  rock  to  rock  with  a 
singing  splash  ...  A  veritable  landscape  of  the 
Lebanon. 

As  much  loaded  with  arms  as  the  great  Tartarin, 
Prince  Gregory  had,  'over  and  above  that,  donned 
a  queer  but  magnificent  military  cap,  all  covered 
with  gold  lace  and  a  trimming  of  oak-leaves  in  silver 
cord,  which  gave  His  Highness  the  aspect  of  a 
Mexican  general  or  a  railway  station-master  on  the 

banks  of  the  Danube. 

201 


2O2  TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON 

This  devil  of  a  cap  much  puzzled  the  Tarasconian ; 
and  as  he  timidly  craved  some  explanation,  the 
prince  gravely  answered,  — 

"  It  is  a  kind  of  headgear  indispensable  for  travel 
in  Algeria." 

And  while  brightening  up  the  peak  with  a  sweep 
of  his  sleeve,  he  instructed  his  simple  companion  in 
the  important  part  which  the  military  cap  plays  in 
the  French  connection  with  the  Arabs,  the  terror  this 
article  of  army  insignia  alone  has  the  privilege  of 
inspiring,  so  that  the  Civil  Service  has  been  obliged 
to  put  all  its  employes  in  Ke'pis,  from  the  road- 
breaker  to  the  receiver-general. 

"  In  fact,  to  govern  Algeria"  — the  prince  is  still 
speaking  —  "there  is  no  need  of  a  strong  head,  or 
even  of  any  head  at  all.  A  military  cap  alone  does 
it,  — a  handsome  laced  Kepi,  shining  at  the  top  of  a 
pole,  like  Gessler's." 

Thus  chatting  and  philosophizing,  the  caravan 
proceeded.  The  barefooted  porters  leaped  from 
rock  to  rock  with  ape-like  screams.  The  gun-cases 
clanked.  The  guns  flashed.  The  natives  who  were 
passing,  salaamed  to  the  ground  before  the  magic 
cap.  .  .  .  Up  above,  on  the  ramparts  of  Milianah,  the 
head  of  the  Arab  Department,  who  was  out  for  an 
airing  with  his  wife,  hearing  these  unusual  noises, 
and  seeing  weapons  gleaming  between  the  branches, 
fancied  there  was  a  revolt,  ordered  the  drawbridge 
to  be  raised,  the  general  alarm  to  be  sounded,  and 
put  the  whole  town  under  a  state  of  siege. 

A  capital  commencement  for  the  caravan  ! 

Unfortunately,  before  the  day  ended,  things  went 


TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON 


203 


wrong.  Of  the  negro  luggage-bearers,  one  was  doubled 
up  with  atrocious  colics  from  having  eaten  the  adhe- 
sive plaster  out  of  the  medicine-chest.  Another  fell 

on  the  roadside  dead- 
drunk  with  camphor- 
ated brandy.  The 

third-  carrier  of  the 

travelling-album,  de- 
ceived by  the  gilding 
on  the  clasps,  and 

persuaded  that  he  was  flying  with  the  treasures  of 
Mecca,  ran  off  into  the  Zaccar  on  his  best  legs.  .  .  . 

This  required  consideration.  .  .  .  The  caravan 
halted,  and  held  a  council  in  the  broken  shadow  of 
an  old  fig-tree. 

"  It 's  my  advice  that  we  give  up  negro  porters 
from  this  evening  forward,"  said  the  prince,  trying 
unsuccessfully  to  melt  a  cake  of  compressed   meat 
in  an   improved  pat- 
ent   triple  -  bottomed 
saucepan.       "  There 
is    an    Arab    market 
quite  near  here.    The 
best  thing  to  do  is  to 
stop  there,   and  buy 
bourriquots" 

"No,  ...  no;  ...  no  bourriquots"  quickly  inter- 
rupted the  great  Tartarin,  becoming  quite  red  at 
memory  of  Noiraud.  And,  hypocrite  that  he  was. 
he  added,  "  How  can  you  expect  that  such  little 
beasts  could  carry  all  our  apparatus?" 

The  prince  smiled. 


»V 


204 


TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 


"  You  are  making  a  mistake,  my  illustrious  friend. 
However  lean  and  thin  the  Algerian  bourriquot  may 
appear  to  you,  he  has  solid  loins.  .  .  .  He  must 
have  them  so  to  support  all  that  he  does.  .  .  .  Just 
ask  the  Arabs.  This  is  how  they  explain  the  French 
colonial  organization.  .  .  .  '  On  the  top,'  they  say, 
'  is  must  the  Gov- 
ernor, with  a  heavy 
club  to  cane  the  staff; 
the  staff,  for  revenge, 
canes  the  soldier ;  the 
soldier  canes  the  set- 
tler, and  the  settler 
canes  the  Arab;  the 
Arab  canes  the  negro, 
the  negro  canes  the 
Jew,  and  the  Jew  in 
his  turn  canes  the 
bourriquot,  and  the 
poor  little  bourriquot,  having  nobody  to  belabor, 
arches  up  his  back  and  bears  it  all.'  You  see 
clearly  now  that  he  can  bear  your  boxes." 

"  All  the  same,"  remonstrated  Tartarin,  "it  strikes 
me  that  jackasses  would  not  chime  in  nicely  with 
the  effect  of  our  caravan.  ...  I  want  something  more 
Oriental.  .  .  .  For  instance,  if  we  could  only  get  a 
camel  "... 

"  As  many  as  you  like,"  said  his  Highness ;  and 
off  they  started  for  the  Arab  market. 

The  market  was  held  a  few  miles  away,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Sheliff.  .  .  .  There  were  five  or  six 
thousand  Arabs  in  tatters  there,  swarming  in  the 


TARTARIN  OF   TAR  A  SCON  205 

sunshine  and  noisily  trafficking,  amid  jars  of  black 
olives,  pots  of  honey,  bags  of  spices,  and  great  heaps 
of  cigars;  huge  fires  were  roasting  whole  sheep, 
basted  with  butter ;  in  open-air  slaughter-houses  stark, 
naked  negroes,  with  red  arms  and  their  feet  in 
gore,  were  cutting  up  kids  hanging  from  cross-poles, 
with  small  knives. 

In  one  corner,  under  a  tent  patched  with  a  thou- 
sand colors,  a  Moorish  scribe  in  spectacles  was 
scrawling  in  a  large  book.  Here  a  group  shouts 
with  rage :  it  was  a  game  of  roulette  set  on  a 
corn-measure,  and  Kabyles  were  ready  to  cut  one 
another's  throats  over  it.  ...  Yonder  were  laughs 
and  contortions  of  delight :  they  were  watching  a 
Jew  trader  on  a  mule  drowning  in  the  Sheliff.  .  .  . 
Then  scorpions,  dogs,  ravens,  and  flies  !  .  .  . 

But  camels  were  lacking.  They  finally  discovered 
one,  though,  which  some  M'zabites  were  trying  to 
dispose  of.  It  was  the  real  ship  of  the  desert,  the 
classical,  standard  camel,  bald,  woe-begone,  with  a 
long  Bedouin  head,  and  its  hump,  become  limp  in 
consequence  of  unduly  long  fasts,  hanging  melan- 
cholically  on  one  side. 

Tartarin  considered  it  so  handsome  that  he  wanted 
the  entire  party  to  get  upon  it.  ...  Still  his  Oriental 
craze !  .  .  . 

The  beast  knelt  down.  They  strapped  on  the 
boxes. 

The  prince  enthroned  himself  on  the  animal's 
neck.  Tartarin,  for  the  sake  of  the  greater  majesty, 
got  them  to  hoist  him  on  the  top  of  the  hump 
between  two  boxes,  where,  proud,  and  cosily  wedged 


2O6  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

in,  be  saluted  the  whole  market  with  a  lofty  wave  of 
the  hand,  and  gave  the  signal  of  departure.  .  .  . 

Thunder  !  if  the  people  of  Tarascon  could  only 
have  seen  him  !  .  .  . 

The  camel  rose,  straightened  up  its  long  knotty 
legs,  and  stepped  out.  .  .  . 

Oh,  stupor  !  At  the  end  of  a  few  strides  Tartarin 
felt  he  was  growing  pale,  and  the  heroic  Chechia 
assumed  one  by  one  its  former  positions  as  in  the 
"Zouave."  This  devil's  own  camel  pitched  and 
tossed  like  a  frigate. 

"  Prtince  !  preface  !  "  gasped  Tartarin,  pallid  as 
a  ghost,  and  clinging  to  the  dry  tuft  of  the  hump, 
"  preince,  let 's  get  down.  I  feel  ...  I  feel  that  I 
m— m — must  get  off,  or  I  shall  disgrace  France  .  .  ." 

Go  to  !  The  camel  had  started,  and  nothing  could 
stop  it.  Behind  it  raced  four  thousand  barefooted 
Arabs,  gesticulating,  laughing  like  mad,  and  making 
six  hundred  thousand  white  teeth  glitter  in  the 
sun.  .  .  . 

The  great  man  of  Tarascon  had  to  resign  himself. 
He  sadly  collapsed  on  the  hump.  The  Chechia  took 
all  the  positions  it  fancied,  .  .  .  and  France  was 
disgraced. 


CHAPTER  V 
The  nigJit  watch  in  an  Oleander  Grove. 


Trie  night-watch  in  an  Oleander  Grove. 

PICTURESQUE  as  was  their  new  steed,  our  lion- 
hunters  had  to  give  it  up,  out  of  consideration  for 
the  red  cap.  So  they  continued  the  journey  on  foot 
as  before,  and  the  caravan  tranquilly  proceeded 
southward  by  short  stages,  the  Tarasconian  in  the 
van,  the  Montenegrin  in  the  rear,  and  the  camel,  with 
the  weapons  in  their  cases,  in  the  ranks. 

The  expedition  lasted  nearly  a  month. 

During  a  month,  seeking  for  lions  impossible  to 
find,  the  terrible  Tartarin  roamed  from  dftar  to  ddar 
on  the  immense  plain  of  the  Sheliff,  through  that 
formidable  and  absurd  French  Algeria,  where  the 
old  Oriental  perfumes  are  complicated  by  a  strong 
odor  of  absinthe  and  the  barracks,  Abraham  and 


210  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

"the  Zouzou"  mingled,  something  fairy-tale-like  and 
naively  burlesque,  like  a  page  of  the  Old  Testament 
related  by  Sergeant  La  Ram£e,  or  Brigadier  Pitou. 

A  curious  sight  for  those  who  have  eyes  to  see.  .  .  . 

A  wild  and  corrupted  people  whom  we  are  civiliz- 
ing by  teaching  them  our  vices.  .  .  .  The  ferocious 
and  uncontrolled  authority  of  grotesque  bashagas, 
who  gravely  blow  their  noses  on  the  wide  ribbons  of 
the  Legion  of  Honor,  and  for  a  mere  yea  or  nay 
order  a  man  to  be  bastinadoed.  It  is  the  conscience- 
less justice  of  begoggled  cadis  under  the  palm-tree, 
hypocrites  of  the  Koran  and  of  the  Law,  dreaming 
languidly  of  promotion  and  selling  their  decrees,  as 
Esau  his  birthright,  for  a  dish  of  lentils  or  sweetened 
kouskous.  Drunken  and  libertine  military  cai'ds, 
formerly  servants  to  some  General  Yusuf  or  the 
like,  who  riot  on  champagne  with  laundresses  from 
Port  Mahon,  and  junket  on  roast  mutton,  while 
before  their  tents  the  whole  tribe  waste  away  with 
hunger,  and  fight  with  the  hounds  for  the  scraps  of 
the  lordly  feast. 

Then,  all  around,  desert  plains,  burnt  grass,  leafless 
shrubs,  thickets  of  cactus  and  mastic,  —  "  the  Granary 
of  France  ! "...  A  granary  void  of  grain,  alas !  and 
rich  only  in  jackals  and  bugs.  Abandoned  douars, 
frightened  tribes  fleeing  they  know  not  whither  to 
escape  famine,  and  strewing  the  road  with  corpses. 
At  long  intervals  a  French  village,  with  the  dwellings 
in  ruins,  the  fields  untilled,  maddened  locusts  gnaw- 
ing even  the  window-blinds,  and  all  the  settlers  in 
the  cafe's  engaged  in  drink  ,ng  absinthe  and  discussing 
projects  of  reform  and  the  Constitution. 


TARTAR1N  OF   TARASCON  211 

This  is  what  Tartarin  might  have  seen  had  he 
taken  the  trouble ;  but,  wholly  absorbed  in  his  leonine 
passion,  the  man  of  Tarascon  went  straight  on, 
looking  to  neither  right  nor  left,  his  eyes  steadfastly 
fixed  on  those  imaginary  monsters  which  never  really 
appeared. 

As  the  shelter-tent  was  stubborn  in  not  unfold- 
ing, and  the  compressed  meat-cakes  would  not  dis- 
solve, the  caravan  was  obliged  to  stop,  morning  and 
evening,  at  tribal  camps.  Everywhere,  thanks  to 
Prince  Gregory's  cap,  our  hunters  were  welcomed 
with  open  arms.  They  lodged  with  agas,  in  fantastic 
palaces,  large  white  windowless  farmhouses,  where 
were  found,  pell-mell,  narghilehs  and  mahogany 
commodes,  Smyrna  carpets  and  moderator  lamps, 
cedar  coffers  full  of  Turkish  sequins,  and  French 
statuette  -  decked  clocks  in  the  Louis  Philippe 
style.  .  .  . 

Everywhere,  too,  Tartarin  was  given  splendid  fetes, 
diffas,  and  fantasias.  ...  In  his  honor  whole  gontns 
made  their  powder  speak  and  their  burnouses  gleam 
in  the  sun.  When  the  powder  had  spoken,  the  good 
aga  would  come  and  hand  in  his  bill.  .  .  .  This  is 
what  is  called  Arab  hospitality. 

But  still  no  lions.  No  more  lions  than  on  the 
New  Bridge. 

Nevertheless,  the  Tarasconian  did  not  grow  dis- 
heartened. Bravely  diving  ever  more  deeply  into 
the  South,  he  spent  his  days  in  beating  up  the 
thickets,  probing  the  dwarf-palms  with  the  muzzle 
of  his  rifle,  and  saying  "  Frrt !  frrt !  "  to  every  bush. 
And  every  evening,  before  lying  down,  a  little 


212  TARTAJUN  OF  TARASCOK 

ambush  for  two  or  three  hours.  .  .  .  Useless  trouble ! 
the  lion  did  not  show  himself. 

One  evening,  however,  toward  six  o'clock,  as  the 
caravan  was  scrambling  through  a  violet-hued  mastic- 
grove,  where  fat  quails,  rendered  heavy  by  the  heat 
were  tumbling  about  in  the  grass,  Tartarin  of  Taras- 
con  fancied  he  heard  —  but  afar,  but  vague,  but 
thinned  down  by  the  breeze  —that  wondrous  roaring 
to  which  he  had  so  often  listened  at  Tarascon  from 
behind  Mitaine's  Menagerie. 

At  first  the  hero  feared  he  was  dreaming.  .  .  .  But 
in  another  instant  the  roaring  began  again  more 
distinct,  although  yet  remote;  and  this  time  the 
camel's  hump  shivered  in  terror,  making  the  canned 
meats  and  the  arms  in  the  cases  rattle,  while  all  the 
dogs  in  the  Arab  douars  were  heard  howling  in  every 
corner  of  the  horizon. 

No  more  doubt !     It  was  the  liqn.  .  .  . 

Quick,  quick  !  to  the  ambush.  Not  a  minute  to 
lose ! 

Near  at  hand  there  happened  to  be  an  old  mara- 
bout (a  saint's  tomb)  with  a  white  cupola,  and  the 
defunct's  large  yellow  slippers  placed  in  a  niche  over 
the  door,  and  a  mass  of  odd  offerings  —  hems  of 
burnouses,  gold  thread,  red  hair  —  hanging  on  the 
wall.  .  .  . 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon  left  his  prince  and  his  camel 
there,  and  went  in  search  of  a  good  spot  for  lying  in 
wait.  Prince  Gregory  wanted  to  follow  him,  but 
the  Tarasconian  refused;  he  was  bent  on  confronting 
the  lion  alone.  But  still  he  besought  his  Highness 
not  to  go  too  far  away,  and,  as  a  measure  of  foresight, 


TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON  21$ 

he  intrusted  him  with  his  pocket-book,  —  a  fat  pocket- 
book,  full  of  precious  papers  and  bank-notes,  which 


he  feared  would  get  torn  by  the  lion's  claws.     This 
done,  our  hero  looked  up  a  good  place. 

A  hundred  steps  in  front  of  the  marabout,  a  little 
clump  of  oleander-trees  shook  in  the  twilight  haze 
on  the  edge  of  a  rivulet  all  but  dried  up.  There 


214  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

it  was  that  Tartarin  went  into  ambush,  one  knee  on 
the  ground,  according  to  the  formula,  his  rifle  in  his 
hand,  and  his  huge  hunting-knife  stuck  boldly  before 
him  in  the  sandy  bank. 

Night  fell. 

The  rosy  tint  of  nature  changed  into  violet,  and 
then  into  dark  blue.  .  .  .  Below  him  among  the  river 
pebbles  gleamed  a  little  pool  of  clear  water  like  a 
hand-glass ;  this  was  the  watering-place  of  the  wild 
animals.  On  the  slope  of  the  opposite  bank  was 
dimly  discernible  the  whitish  trail  which  their  heavy 
paws  had  traced  among  the  lentisk  bushes.  This 
mysterious  path  made  the  flesh  creep.  Add  to  this 
the  vague  swarming  sound  of  the  African  nights,  the 
light  rustling  of  branches,  the  velvety  steps  of  roving 
creatures,  the  jackal's  shrill  yelp,  and  up  in  the  sky, 
five  or  ten  hundred  feet  aloft,  vast  flocks  of  cranes 
passing  on  with  screams  like  children  having  their 
throats  cut.  You  will  own  that  there  were  grounds 
for  a  man  being  moved. 

Tartarin  was.  He  was  even  more  than  that.  His 
teeth  chattered,  poor  fellow  !  And  on  the  cross-bar 
of  his  hunting-knife,  planted  upright  in  the  bank, 
his  rifle-barrel  rattled  like  a  pair  of  castanets.  .  .  . 
What  do  you  expect?  There  are  times  when  one  is 
not  in  the  mood ;  and,  then,  where  would  be  the 
merit  if  heroes  were  never  afraid  ? 

Well,  yes,  Tartarin  was  afraid,  and  all  the  time, 
too,  for  the  matter  of  that.  Nevertheless,  he  held 
out  for  an  hour,  for  two  hours ;  but  heroism  has  its 
limits.  .  .  .  Near  him,  in  the  dry  part  of  the  rivulet- 


TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON  21$ 

bed,  the  Tarasconian  suddenly  hears  a  sound  of 
steps  and  of  pebbles  rolling.  This  time  terror  lifted 
him  off  the  ground.  He  fired  off  both  his  barrels 
at  haphazard  into  the  night,  and  retreated  as  fast  as 
his  legs  would  carry  him  to  the  maraboufs  tomb, 
leaving  his  knife  standing  up  in  the  sand  like  a  cross 
commemorative  of  the  grandest  panic  that  ever 
assailed  the  soul  of  a  conqueror  of  hydras. 


"  Help  !  preince  ...  the  lion  !  " 


Silence  ! 


"  Preince,  preince,  are  you  there  ?  " 

The  prince  was  not  there.  On  the  white  moonlit 
wall  of  the  marabout  the  good  camel  alone  cast  the 
queer-shaped  shadow  of  his  hump.  .  .  .  Prince 
Gregory  had  cut  and  run  with  the  wallet  and  the 
bank-notes.  .  .  .  His  Highness  had  been  for  a  month 
past  awaiting  this  opportunity.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  VI 
At  last!  .  .  . 


VI 


WHEN,  on  the  morning  after  this  adventurous  and 
tragic  eve,  our  hero  awoke  early,  very  early,  and  got 
assurance  doubly  sure  that  the  prince  and  the  trea- 
sure had  really  gone  off,  gone  off  never  to  return  !  — 
when  he  found  himself  alone  in  that  little  white  tomb, 
betrayed,  robbed,  abandoned  in  the  heart  of  wild 
Algeria,  with  a  one-humped  camel  and  some  pocket- 
money  as  all  his  resources,  —  then  for  the  first  time 
the  Tarasconian  doubted.  He  doubted  Montene- 
gro, he  doubted  friendship,  he  doubted  glory,  he 
doubted  even  the  lions;  and  the  great  man,  like 
Christ  at  Gethsemane,  began  to  weep  bitterly. 

Now,  while  he  was  pensively  seated  there  on  the 
sill  of  the  marabout,  with  his  head  between  his  hands 
and  his  gun  between  his  legs,  with  the  camel  gazing 

219 


22O  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

at  him,  suddenly  the  thicket  in  front  of  him  was 
divided,  and  Tartarin  stupefied  saw  a  gigantic  lion 
appear  not  a  dozen  paces  off.  It  came  on  with  its 
head  on  high  and  emitting  formidable  roars,  which 
made  the  tinsel-laden  walls  of  the  marabout  shake, 
and  even  the  saint's  slippers  dance  in  their  niche. 

The  Tarasconian  alone  did  not  tremble. 

"  At  last !  "  he  shouted,  jumping  up  and  levelling 
the  rifle. 

Bang  !  .  .  .  bang !  pfft !  pfft !     It  was  done.  .  .  . 

The  lion  had  two  explosive  bullets  in  his  head. 
For  a  minute,  on  the  fiery  background  of  the  Afric 
sky,  there  was  a  dreadful  firework  display  of  scattered 
brains,  smoking  blood,  and  tawny  hair.  Then  all 
fell,  and  Tartarin  perceived  .  .  .  two  tall  angry  negroes 
running  toward  him,  brandishing  their  cudgels.  The 
two  negroes  of  Milianah! 

Oh,  misery ! 

It  was  the  domesticated  lion,  the  poor  blind  beggar 
of  the  Mohammed  Monastery,  which  the  Tarasco- 
nian's  bullets  had  just  knocked  over. 

This  time,  by  Mahound,  Tartarin  escaped  neatly. 
Drunk  with  fanatical  fury,  the  two  negro  collectors 
would  have  surely  beaten  him  to  pulp  had  not  the 
God  of  the  Christians  sent  to  his  aid  a  delivering 
angel,  —  the  garde  champetre  of  the  Orle'ansville 
commune,  coming  up  by  a  bypath  with  his  sword 
under  his  arm. 

The  sight  of  the  municipal  cap  suddenly  calmed 
the  negroes'  choler.  Peaceful  and  majestic,  the  man 
with  the  badge  drew  up  a  report  on  the  affair,  ordered 
the  camel  to  be  loaded  with  what  remained  of  the 


TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON  221 

lion,  and  the  plaintiffs  as  well  as  the  delinquent  to 
follow  him,  and  proceeded  to  Orleansville,  where  the 
whole  matter  was  laid  before  the  registry. 

There  resulted  a  long  and  terrible  suit ! 

After  the  Algeria  of  the  native  tribes  which  he 
had  just  been  traversing,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon  be- 
came henceforth  acquainted  with  another  Algeria, 
not  less  ridiculous  and  to  be  dreaded,  —  the  Algeria 
of  the  towns,  litigious  and  pettifogging.  He  came 
to  know  the  squint-eyed  Law  that  is  brewed  at  the 
back  of  a  cafe",  —  the  Bohemia  of  the  Bar,  briefs 
reeking  of  absinthe,  white  neckcloths  spotted  with 
champorcau  ;  he  came  to  know  the  ushers,  the  attor- 
neys, the  business  agents,  all  those  locusts  of  stamped 
paper,  meagre  and  famished,  who  eat  up  the  colonist 
even  to  the  very  straps  of  his  boots,  and  leave  him 
stripped  leaf  by  leaf  like  a  cornstalk.  .  .  . 

Before  all,  it  was  necessary  to  ascertain  whether 
the  lion  had  been  killed  on  the  civil  territory  or  the 
military  territory.  In  the  former  case  the  matter 
concerned  the  Tribunal  of  Commerce ;  in  the  second, 
Tartarin  would  be  dealt  with  by  the  Council  of  War; 
and  at  the  mere  name  .of  Council  of  War  the  impres- 
sionable Tarasconian  saw  himself  already  shot  at  the 
foot  of  the  ramparts  or  wallowing  at  the  bottom  of 
a  silo.  .  .  . 

The  terrible  thing  about  it  is  that  the  limitation  of 
the  two  territories  is  very  hazy  in  Algeria.  .  .  . 

At  length,  after  a  month  of  running  about,  of 
entanglements,  and  waiting  under  the  sun  in  the 
courts  of  Arab  Bureaux,  it  was  established  that  if  on 
the  one  hand  the  lion  had  been  killed  on  the  military 


222  TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON 

territory,  on  the  other  hand  Tartarin  was  in  the  civil 
territory  when  he  shot.  So  the  case  was  decided  in 
the  civil  courts,  and  our  hero  was  let  off  on  paying 
two  thousand  five  hundred  francs  damages,  without 
costs. 

How  could  he  pay  such  a  sum  ? 

The  few  piastres  escaped  from  the  prince's  raid 
had  long  since  gone  in  legal  documents  and  judicial 
libations. 

The  unfortunate  lion-destroyer  was  therefore  re- 
duced to  selling  the  store  of  guns  by  retail,  rifle  by 
rifle.  He  sold  the  daggers,  the  Malay  kreeses,  the 
life-preservers.  ...  A  grocer  purchased  the  preserved 
meats  ;  an  apothecary  what  remained  of  the  medica- 
ments. The  big  boots  themselves  walked  off,  and 
followed  the  improved  tent  to  a  bric-a-brac  dealer, 
who  elevated  them  to  the  dignity  of  "  curiosities 
from  Cochin-China." 

When  everything  was  paid  up,  only  the  lion's  skin 
and  the  camel  remained  to  Tartarin.  The  hide  he 
had  carefully  packed,  to  be  sent  to  Tarascon  to  the 
address  of  the  gallant  Commandant  Bravida.  (We 
shall  soon  see  what  .came  of  this  fabulous  trophy.) 
As  for  the  camel,  he  reckoned  on  making  use  of  him 
to  get  back  to  Algiers,  not  by  riding  on  him,  but  by 
selling  him  to  pay  his  coach-fare,  — the  best  way  to 
employ  a  camel  in  travelling.  Unhappily  the  beast 
was  difficult  to  dispose  of,  and  no  one  would  offer  a 
copper  for  him. 

Still  Tartarin  wanted  to  regain  Algiers  by  hook 
or  by  crook.  He  was  in  haste  once  more  to  behold 
Ba'ia's  blue  bodice,  his  little  snuggery  and  his  foun- 


TARTAR  IN  OF   TARASCON  22  3 

tains,  and  to  repose  on  the  white  trefoils  of  his 
little  cloister  while  awaiting  money  from  France. 
So  our  hero  did  not  hesitate ;  distressed  but  not 
downcast,  he  undertook  to  make  the  journey  afoot 
and  penniless  by  short  stages. 

In  this  enterprise  the  camel  did  not  abandon  him. 
The  strange  animal  had  taken  an  unaccountable 
fancy  for  his  master,  and  on  seeing  him  leave 
Orleansville,  he  started  off  striding  religiously  be- 
hind him,  regulating  his  pace  by  his,  and  never 
quitting  him  by  a  foot ! 

At  the  outset  Tartarin  found  this  touching;  such 
fidelity,  such  devotion  above  proof  went  to  his  heart, 
all  the  more  because  the  creature  was  accommo- 
dating, and  fed  himself  on  nothing.  Nevertheless, 
after  a  few  days,  the  Tarasconian  was  worried  by 
having  this  glum  companion  perpetually  at  his  heels, 
to  remind  him  of  all  his  misadventures.  Then,  out 
of  sheer  spite,  he  was  vexed  with  him  because  of 
his  sad  aspect,  his  hump,  and  his  gait  like  a  goose 
in  harness.  To  tell  the  whole  truth,  he  detested  him, 
and  only  thought  how  to  get  rid  of  him  ;  but  the 
animal  would  not  be  shaken  off.  .  .  .  Tartarin  tried  to 
lose  him,  but  the  camel  found  him  again;  he  tried 
to  run  away,  but  the  camel  ran  faster.  .  .  .  He  bade 
him  begone,  and  hurled  stones  at  him.  The  camel 
stopped  and  gazed  at  him  with  a  mournful  mien,  but 
in  a  minute  resumed  the  pursuit,  and  always  ended 
by  overtaking  him.  Tartarin  had  to  resign  himself. 

For  all  that,  when,  after  a  long  week  of  tramping, 
the  dusty  harassed  Tarasconian  espied  the  first 


224  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

white  housetops  of  Algiers  glimmer  from  afar  in 
the  verdure,  when  he  found  himself  at  the  city 
gates,  on  the  noisy  Mustapha  Avenue,  amid  Zouaves, 
Biskris,  and  Port  Mahon  women,  all  swarming 
around  him  and  staring  at  him  trudging  by  with 
his  camel,  overtasked  patience  escaped  him. 

"  No  !  no  !  "  he  said,  "  it  is  impossible  !  .  .  .  I 
cannot  enter  Algiers  with  such  an  animal  !  "  And 
profiting  by  a  jam  of  vehicles,  he  turned  off  into 
the  fields,  and  jumped  into  a  ditch.  .  .  . 

At  the  end  of  a  minute  he  saw  over  his  head  on 
the  highway  the  camel  flying  off  with  long  strides, 
and  stretching  out  his  neck  with  a  wistful  air. 

Then,  relieved  of  a  great  weight,  the  hero  sneaked 
out  of  his  covert,  and  entered  the  town  anew  by  a 
circuitous  path  which  skirted  the  wall  of  his  own 
little  garden. 


CHAPTER  VII 
Catastrophes  upon  catastrophes. 


'5 


VII 


Catastrophes  upon  catastrophes. 

As  he  reached  his  Moorish  dwelling,  Tartar! n 
stopped  in  perfect  astonishment. 

Day  was  dying;  the  street  was  deserted.  Through 
the  low-arched  doorway  which  the  negress  had  for- 
gotten to  close  he  could  hear  bursts  of  laughter,  the 
clink  of  wine-glasses,  the  popping  of  champagne 

227 


228  TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

corks,  and,  above  all   the  jolly  uproar,  a  woman's 
voice,  clear  and  joyous,  singing,  — 

Aimes-tu,  Marco  la  Belle, 
La  danse  aux  salons  en  flcur. 

"  Tron  de  Diouf"  ejaculated  the  Tarasconian, 
turning  pale ;  and  he  rushed  into  the  enclosure. 

Hapless  Tartarin !  what  a  sight  awaited  him  !  .  .  . 
Beneath  the  arches  of  the  little  cloister,  amid  bot- 
tles, pastry,  scattered  cushions,  pipes,  tambourines, 
and  guitars,  stood  Ba'ia,  without  her  blue  vest  or 
bodice;  wearing  only  a  silvery  gauze  chemisette 
and  full  pink  pantaloons;  and  she  was  singing 
Marco  la  Belle  with  a  ship-captain's  cap  over  one 
ear.  ...  At  her  feet,  on  a  mat,  surfeited  with  love 
and  sweetmeats,  Barbassou,  the  infamous  Captain 
Barbassou,  was  bursting  with  laughter  at  hearing 
her. 

The  apparition  of  Tartarin,  haggard,  thin,  dusty, 
his  flaming  eyes,  and  the  bristling  Chechia,  sharply 
interrupted  this  tender  Turkish-Marseillais  orgie. 
Bai'a  uttered  a  squeal  like  a  frightened  leveret,  and 
ran  for  safety  into  the  house.  But  Barbassou  did 
not  wince  ;  he  only  laughed  the  louder,  saying,  — 

"He,  he!  Monsieur  Tartarin!  What  do  you  say 
about  it  now?  You  see  she  knows  French." 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon  advanced  furiously. 

"  Captain  !  " 

" Digo-li  que  vengue,  moun  bon  !  — tell  him  what 's 
happened,  my  dear!"  screamed  the  Moorish  woman, 
leaning  over  the  first-floor  gallery  with  a  pretty  low- 
bred gesture. 


TARTARIN  OF  TAR  AS  CON  229 

The  poor  man,  overwhelmed,  let  himself  collapse 
on  a  drum.  His  Moorish  beauty  even  knew  the 
French  of  Marseilles ! 

"  I  told  you  not  to  trust  the  Algerian  girls,"  ob- 
served Captain  Barbassou,  sententiously.  "  They  're 
as  tricky  as  your  Montenegrin  prince." 

Tartarin  raised  his  head. 

"  Do  you  know  where  the  prince  is  ?  " 

"Oh,  he's  not  far  off.  He  has  gone  to  live 
five  years  in  the  handsome  prison  of  Mustapha. 
The  rogue  let  himself  be  caught  with  his  hand 
in  the  pocket.  .  .  .  However,  this  is  not  the  first 
time  he  has  been  clapped  into  the  calaboose.  His 
Highness  has  already  been  three  years  in  some  state 
prison  .  .  .  and  stop  a  bit !  I  believe  it  was  at 
Tarascon." 

"  At  Tarascon  !  .  .  .  "  cried  Tartarin,  suddenly 
enlightened.  ..."  That 's  how  he  knew  only  one 
part  of  the  town." 

"He!  Of  course.  .  . -.  Tarascon  —  as  seen  from 
the  state  prison.  ...  I  tell  you,  my  poor  Monsieur 
Tartarin,  you  have  to  keep  your  eyes  peeled  in  this 
deuce  of  a  country,  or  be  exposed  to  very  disagree- 
able things.  .  .  .  For  a  sample,  there  's  the  muezzin's 
game  with  you." 

"  What  game  ?     What  muezzin  ?  " 

"  Te  !  pardi!  .  .  .  The  muezzin  across  the  way  who 
was  making  up  to  Ba'ia.  .  .  .  The  Akbar  told  the  yarn 
t'  other  day,  and  all  Algiers  is  laughing  over  it  even 
now.  ...  It  is  so  funny  for  that  muezzin  up  there  in 
his  tower  to  make  declarations  of  love  under  your 
very  nose  to  the  little  beauty  while  singing  out  his 


230  TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON 

prayers,  and  making  appointments  with  her  while 
invoking  the  name  of  Allah." 

"  But  are  they  all  scamps  in  this  country  ?  .  .  .  " 
howled  the  unlucky  Tarasconian. 

Barbassou  shrugged  his  shoulders  like  a  philoso- 
pher. 

"  My  dear,  you  know,  these  new  countries !  .  .  . 
But,  anyhow,  if  you  '11  believe  me,  you  'd  best  go  back 
to  Tarascon  at  full  speed." 

"  Go  back !  .  .  .  It 's  easy  to  say.  .  .  .  And  the 
money?  Don't  you  know  that  I  was  plucked  out 
there  in  the  desert?" 

"  What  does  that  matter  ?  "  said  the  captain,  laugh- 
ing. "  The  '  Zouave '  sails  to-morrow,  and  if  you 
like  I  will  take  you  home.  .  .  .  Does  that  suit  you, 
mate?  .  .  .  Very  well,  then.  You  have  only  one 
thing  to  do.  There  are  some  bottles  of  champagne 
left,  and  half  the  pie.  Sit  you  down  and  pitch  in 
without  any  grudge.  ..." 

After  the  minute's  wavering  which  his  dignity 
demanded,  the  Tarasconian  chose  his  course  man- 
fully. Down  he  sat,  and  they  touched  glasses. 
Ba'ia,  gliding  down  when  she  heard  that  chinking 
sound,  sang  the  finale  of  Marco  la  Belle,  and  the 
jollification  was  prolonged  deep  into  the  night. 

About  3  A.M.,  with  a  light  head  but  a  heavy  foot, 
the  good  Tarasconian  was  returning  from  seeing  his 
friend  the  captain  home,  when,  in  passing  the  mosque. 
the  remembrance  of  the  muezzin  and  his  practical 
jokes  made  him  laugh,  and  instantly  a  capital  idea 
of  revenge  flitted  through  his  brain. 

The  door  was  open.     He  entered,  threaded  long 


TARTARIN  OF  TARASCON  231 

corridors  laid  with  mats,  mounted  and  kept  on 
mounting,  and  at  last  found  himself  in  a  little  Turk- 
ish oratory,  where  an  openwork  iron  lantern  swung 
from  the  ceiling,  embroidering  an  odd  pattern  in 
shadows  on  the  white  walls. 

There  sat  the  muezzin  on  a  divan,  in  his  large 
turban  and  white  pelisse,  with  his  Mostaganem  pipe, 
and  a  great  glass  of  absinthe  which  he  was  whipping 
up  in  the  orthodox  manner,  while  awaiting  the  hour 
to  call  true  believers  to  prayer.  ...  At  view  of 
Tartarin,  he  dropped  his  pipe  in  terror. 

"  Not  a  word,  priest !  "  said  the  Tarasconian,  full 
of  his  project.  "  Quick  !  your  turban,  your  pelisse  !  " 

The  Turkish  priest  all  a-trembling  handed  over 
his  turban,  his  pelisse,  all  that  was  demanded. 
Tartarin  put  them  on,  and  gravely  stepped  out  on 
the  platform  of  the  minaret. 

In  the  distance  shone  the  sea.  The  white  roofs 
glittered  in  the  moonbeams.  On  the  sea-breeze  was 
heard  the  strumming  of  a  few  belated  guitars.  .  .  . 
The  muezzin  Tarascon  deliberated  for  a  moment ; 
then,  raising  his  arms,  he  set  to  chanting  in  a  very 
shrill  voice,  — 

"  La  Allah  il  Allah  !  .  .  .  Mahomet  is  an  old  hum- 
bug !  .  .  .  The  Orient,  the  Koran,  bashagas,  lions, 
Moorish  beauties,  —  the  whole  thing  is  not  worth 
a  rap  !  .  .  .  There  are  no  more  Teurs !  There 
is  nothing  left  but  gammoners.  .  .  .  Long  live 
Tarascon  !  " 

And  while  the  illustrious  Tartarin,  in  his  queer 
jumbling  of  Arabic  and  Provencal,  flung  his  mirth- 
ful Tarasconian  malediction  to  the  four  corners  of 


232  FARTARIN  OF  TARASCON 

the  horizon,  —  over  the  sea,  over  the  town,  over  the 
plain,  over  the  mountain, — the  clear,  solemn  voices 
of  the  other  muezzins  answered  him,  taking  up  the 
strain  from  minaret  to  minaret,  and  the  believers 
of  the  upper  town  devoutly  beat  their  bosoms. 


Tarascon  I  Tarascon  f 


VIII 


Tarascon  .'  Tarascon  ! 

MID-DAY. 

The  "  Zouave  "  has  her  steam  up,  ready  to  sail.  Up 
yonder,  on  the  balcony  of  the  Valentin  Cafe",  the 
officers  are  levelling  telescopes,  and  from  the  colonel 
down  are  taking  turns  looking  at  the  lucky  little 
craft  that  is  going  back  to  France.  .  This  is  the 
main  distraction  of  the  staff.  .  .  .  On  the  lower  level 
the  roads  glitter.  The  breaches  of  the  old  Turkish 
cannon,  stuck  up  along  the  quay,  blaze  in  the  sun. 
The  passengers  are  hurrying.  Biskris  and  Mahon- 
nais  are  piling  luggage  up  in  the  transfer-boats. 

235 


236  TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon  has  no  luggage.  Here  he 
comes  down  the  Rue  de  la  Marine  through  the  little 
market,  full  of  bananas  and  melons,  accompanied 
by  his  friend  Barbassou.  The  hapless  Tarasconian 
has  left  on  the  Moorish  strand  his  gun-cases  and  his 
illusions,  and  now  he  is  ready  to  sail  for  Tarascon 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  .  .  .  He  has  barely 
leaped  into  the  captain's  cutter  before  a  breathless 
beast  dashes  down  from  the  heights  of  the  square 
and  gallops  toward  him.  It  is  the  camel,  the  faithful 
camel,  which  during  four-and-twenty  hours  has  been 
hunting  after  his  master  in  Algiers. 

On  seeing  him,  Tartarin  changes  countenance, 
and  pretends  not  to  know  him ;  but  the  camel  is 
desperate.  He  frisks  along  the  quay ;  he  whinnies 
for  his  friend  ;  he  gazes  on  him  with  affection. 

"  Take  me  away,"  his  sad  eyes  seem  to  say,  — 
"  take  me  away  in  your  ship,  far,  far  from  this  painted, 
pasteboard  Arabia,  this  ridiculous  Orient,  full  of 
locomotives  and  stage-coaches,  where  I  —  a  declassed 
dromedary  —  know  not  what  will  become  of  me.  You 
are  the  last  real  Turk  ;  I  am  the  last  camel.  .  .  .  Let 
us  not  part,  O  my  Tartarin  !  " 

"  Is  that  camel  yours  ? "  inquires  the  captain. 

"  Not  at  all ! "  replies  Tartarin,  groaning  at  the 
idea  of  entering  Tarascon  with  that  ridiculous  es- 
cort; and,  impudently  denying  the  companion  of 
his  misfortunes,  he  spurns  the  Algerian  soil,  and 
shoves  the  cutter  off  with  his  foot.  .  .  .  The  camel 
sniffs  of  the  water,  stretches  out  its  neck,  cracks 
its  joints,  and,  desperately  jumping  in  behind  the 
row-boat,  he  swims  toward  the  "Zouave,"  with 


TARTARIN  OF   TAKASCON  237 

his  humped  back  floating  like  a  bladder,  and  his 
long  neck  projecting  over  the  wave  like  the  beak 
of  a  trireme. 

Cutter  and  camel  come  alongside  the  mail-steamer 
together. 

"  Now  really  this  dromedary  makes  me  sad,"  says 
Captain  Barbassou,  quite  affected.  "  I  have  a  good 
mind  to  take  him  aboard.  .  .  .  When  I  get  to  Mar- 
seilles, I  will  make  a  present  of  him  to  the  Zoological 
Gardens." 

With  the  aid  of  many  blocks  and  tackles,  they 
hoist  the  camel,  heavy  with  brine,  up  on  deck,  and 
the  "  Zouave  "  starts. 

The  two  days  of  the  crossing  Tartarin  spent  all 
alone  in  his  stateroom,  not  because  the  sea  was 
rough,  or  because  the  Chechia  had  too  much  to 
endure,  but  because  that  deuced  camel,  as  soon 
as  his  master  appeared  above  decks,  showed  him 
the  most  preposterous  attentions.  .  .  .  You  never 
saw  a  camel  make  such  an  exhibition  of  a  man 
as  this. 

From  hour  to  hour,  through  the  cabin  portholes, 
where  he  stuck  out  his  nose  now  and  then,  Tartarin 
saw  the  blue  Algerian  sky  pale  away;  then  one 
morning,  in  a  silvery  fog,  he  heard  with  delight  all 
the  bells  of  Marseilles  ringing  out.  They  had 
arrived.  .  .  .  The  "Zouave"  cast  anchor. 

Our  man,  having  no  luggage,  got  off  without  say- 
ing anything,  hastily  slipped  through  Marseilles, 
always  fearing  he  should  be  pursued  by  the  camel, 
and  never  breathed  till  he  was  in  a  third-class 
carriage  making  for  Tarascon.  .  .  . 


238  TARTARIN  OF   TARASCON 

Deceptive  security ! 

Hardly  are  they  two  leagues  from  Marseilles  when, 
lo !  all  heads  are  stuck  out  of  windows.  There  are 
outcries  and  astonishment.  Tartarin  in  his  turn 
looks,  and  .  .  .  what  does  he  descry !  .  .  .  The  camel, 
Monsieur,  the  inevitable  camel,  racing  over  the  rails 
through  the  depths  of  Crau  behind  the  train,  and 
keeping  up  with  it !  Tartarin  in  dismay  drew  back 
and  shut  his  eyes. 


After  this  disastrous  expedition  of  his  he  had 
reckoned  on  slipping  into  his  house  incognito.  But 
the  presence  of  this  burdensome  quadruped  rendered 
the  thing  impossible.  What  kind  of  a  triumphal 
entry  would  he  make?  Good  heavens!  not  a  sou, 
not  a  lion,  nothing  ...  a  camel ! 

"  Tarascon  !  .  .  .  Tarascon  !  " 

He  was  obliged  to  get  down.  .  .  . 

Oh,  amazement ! 

Scarce  had  the  hero's  Chechia  appeared  in  the 
doorway  before  a  loud  shout  of  "  Vive  Tartarin  ! " 
made  the  glazed  roof  of  the  railway-station  tremble. 
"  Long  life  to  Tartarin,  the  lion-slayer  !  "  And  out 
burst  the  blast  of  horns  and  the  choruses  of  the 
local  musical  societies.  .  .  . 

Tartarin  felt  death  had  come :  he  thought  it  was 
a  hoax.  But,  no !  all  Tarascon  was  there,  waving 
their  hats,  and  enthusiastic !  Behold  the  gallant 
Commandant  Bravida,  Costecalde  the  armorer,  the 
Chief  Judge,  the  apothecary,  and  the  whole  noble 
corps  of  cap-hunters  pressing  around  their  leader, 


TARTARIN  OF  7*ARASCON  239 

and  carrying  him  in  triumph  out  through  the  passage- 
ways. .  .  . 

Singular  effects  of  the  mirage  !  —  the  hide  of  the 
blind  lion  sent  to  Bravida  was  the  cause  of  all  this 
riot.  With  that  humble  fur  exhibited  in  the  club- 
room,  the  Tarasconians,  and,  at  the  back  of  them, 
the  whole  South  of  France,  had  grown  exalted.  The 
"  Semaphore"  had  spoken  of  it.  A  drama  had  been 
invented.  Tartarin  had  slain  not  merely  one  lion, 
but  ten  lions,  twenty  lions,  a  marmalade  of  lions ! 
Hence  Tartarin,  on  disembarking  at  Marseilles,  was 
already  celebrated  without  being  aware  of  it,  and  an 
enthusiastic  telegram  had  gone  on  two  hours  before 
him  to  his  native  place. 

But  what  capped  the  climax  of  the  popular  glad- 
ness was  to  see  a  fantastic  animal,  covered  with 
dust  and  sweat,  appear  behind  the  hero,  and  stumble 
down  the  station  stairs. 

Tarascon  for  an  instant  believed  that  its  dragon 
was  come  again. 

Tartarin  reassured  his  fellow-citizens. 

"This  is  my  camel,"  he  said. 

And  already,  under  the  influence  of  the  Tarasco 
nian  sun,  that  splendid  sun  which  makes  people  lie 
ingenuously,  he  added,  as  he  fondled  the  dromedary's 
hump,  — 

"  It  is  a  noble  beast !  ...  It  saw  me  kill  all  my 
lions !  " 

Whereupon  he  familiarly  took  the  arm  of  the 
Commandant,  who  was  red  with  pleasure ;  and 
followed  by  his  camel,  surrounded  by  the  cap- 
hunters,  acclaimed  by  all  the  population,  he  pla- 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  695  678     3 


W''         *N  Vfi. 

.  '    j\    ?-i*.'< 

*  -x^  -     -    <.l^J 


4 

^ 


